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THE 


Stones  of  Venice 


BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

AUTHOR  OF  “ THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE,”  “ MODERN  PAINTERS,”  ETC. 


VOLUME  THE  SECOND 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  & COMPANY 

122  Nassau  Street 


CONTENTS 


1 M 

- ft 

*:  tsin- 

Y i 2- 


SECOND,  OR  GOTHIC,  PERIOD. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

b The  Nature  of  Gothic, 

SK 

^ CHAPTER  VIL 

^ Gothic  Palaces,  * * * 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

i 

'l  The  Ducal  Palace,  

I 

appendix. 

ZD 

P 

1.  The  Gondolier’s  Cry, 

2.  Our  Lady  of  Salvation, 

3.  Tides  of  Venice,  and  Measures  at  Torcello, 

4.  Date  of  the  Duomo  of  Torcello,  . 

5.  Modern  Pulpits, 

6.  Apse  of  Murano, 

7.  Early  Venetian  Dress, 

8.  Inscriptions  at  Murano, 

9.  Shafts  of  St.  Mark,  ...••• 

10.  Proper  Sense  of  the  Word  Idolatry, 

11.  Situations  of  Byzantine  Palaces, 

12.  Modern  Painting  on  Glass, 


PAGE 

. 152 


. 230 


. 279 


• . 373 

. 870 

. 377 
. 378 

. 379 
. 380 

. 381 
. 382 

. 383 
. 387 

. 390 
. 392 


CONTENTS, ; 


THIRD,  OR  RENAISSANCE,  PERIOD. 


Early  Renaissance, 

CHAPTER  L 

• • • • 

• 

. 

• 

PAGE 

. 5 

Roman  Renaissance,  . 

CHAPTER  H. 

. 35 

Grotesque  Renaissance,  . 

CHAPTER  III. 

. 

• 

• 

. 113 

Conclusion,  . 

CHAPTER  IV. 

. 166 

APPENDIX. 


1.  Architect  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  .... 

2.  Theology  of  Spenser, 

3.  Austrian  Government  in  Italy,  .... 

4.  Date  of  the  Palaces  of  the  Byzantine  Renaissance,  . 

5.  Renaissance  Side  of  Ducal  Palace, 

6.  Character  of  the  Doge  Michele  Morosini,  . 

7.  Modern  Education,  ..... 


199 

205 

209 

211 

213 

213 

215 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

8.  Early  Venetian  Marriages, 223 

9.  Character  of  the  Venetian  Aristocracy,  . 223 

10.  Final  Appendix, „ 225 


INDICES. 

I.  Personal  Index,  2G6 

II.  Local  Index, 271 

III.  Topical  Index, 274 

IV.  Venetian  Index,  290 


SECOND,  OR  GOTHIC,  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  YL 

THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 

§ i.  If  the  reader  will  look  back  to  the  division  of  our  sub* 
ject  which  was  made  in  the  first  chapter  of  the  first  volume,  he 
will  find  that  we  are  now  about  to  enter  upon  the  examination 
of  that  school  of  Venetian  architecture  which  forms  an  inter- 
mediate step  between  the  Byzantine  and  Gothic  forms ; but 
which  I find  may  be  conveniently  considered  in  its  connexion 
with  the  latter  style.  In  order  that  we  may  discern  the  ten- 
dency of  each  step  of  this  change,  it  will  be  wise  in  the  outset 
to  endeavor  to  form  some  general  idea  of  its  final  result.  We 
know  already  what  the  Byzantine  architecture  is  from  which 
the  transition  was  made,  but  we  ought  to  know  something  of 
the  Gothic  architecture  into  which  it  led.  I shall  endeavor 
therefore  to  give  the  reader  in  this  chapter  an  idea,  at  once 
broad  and  definite,  of  the  true  nature  of  Gothic  architecture, 
properly  so  called  ; not  of  that  of  Venice  only,  but  of  univer- 
sal Gothic  : for  it  will  be  one  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of 
our  subsequent  inquiry,  to  find  out  how  far  Venetian  archi- 
tecture reached  the  universal  or  perfect  type  of  Gothic,  and 
how  far  it  either  fell  short  of  it,  or  assumed  foreign  and  inde- 
pendent forms. 

§ ii.  The  principal  difficulty  in  doing  this  arises  from  the 
fact  that  every  building  of  the  Gothic  period  differs  in  some 
important  respect  from  every  other  ; and  many  include  feat- 
ures which,  if  they  occurred  in  other  buildings,  would  not  be 
considered  Gothic  at  all  ; so  that  all  we  have  to  reason  upon 
is  merely,  if  I may  be  allowed  so  to  express  it,  a greater  or  less 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


153 


degree  of  Gothicness  in  each  building  we  examine.  And  it  is 
this  Gothicness, — the  character  which,  according  as  it  is  found 
more  or  less  in  a building,  makes  it  more  or  less  Gothic, — of 
which  I want  to  define  the  nature  ; and  I feel  the  same  kind 
of  difficulty  in  doing  so  which  wTould  be  encountered  by  any 
one  who  undertook  to  explain,  for  instance,  the  nature  of  Red- 
ness, without  any  actual  red  thing  to  point  to,  but  only  orange 
and  purple  things.  Suppose  he  had  only  a piece  of  heather 
and  a dead  oak-leaf  to  do  it  with.  He  might  say,  the  color 
which  is  mixed  with  the  yellow  in  this  oak-leaf,  and  with  the 
blue  in  this  heather,  would  be  red,  if  you  had  it  separate  ; but 
it  would  be  difficult,  nevertheless,  to  make  the  abstraction  per- 
fectly intelligible  : and  it  is  so  in  a far  greater  degree  to  make 
the  abstraction  of  the  Gothic  character  intelligible,  because 
that  character  itself  is  made  up  of  many  mingled  ideas,  and 
can  consist  only  in  their  union.  That  is  to  say,  pointed  arches 
do  not  constitute  Gothic,  nor  vaulted  roofs,  nor  flying  but- 
tresses, nor  grotesque  sculptures ; but  all  or  some  of  these 
things,  and  many  other  things  with  them,  -when  they  come 
together  so  as  to  have  life. 

§ in.  Observe  also,  that,  in  the  definition  proposed,  I shall 
only  endeavor  to  analyze  the  idea  which  I suppose  already  to 
exist  in  the  reader’s  mind.  We  all  have  some  notion,  most  of 
us  a very  determined  one,  of  the  meaning  of  the  term  Gothic  ; 
but  I know  that  many  persons  have  this  idea  in  their  minds 
without  being  able  to  define  it : that  is  to  say,  understanding 
generally  that  Westminster  Abbey  is  Gothic,  and  St.  Paul’s  is 
not,  that  Strasburg  Cathedral  is  Gothic,  and  St.  Peter’s  is  not, 
they  have,  nevertheless,  no  clear  notion  of  what  it  is  that 
they  recognize  in  the  one  or  miss  in  the  other,  such  as  w^ould 
enable  them  to  say  how  far  the  work  at  Westminster  or  Stras- 
burg is  good  and  pure  of  its  kind  : still  less  to  say  of  any  non- 
descript building,  like  St.  James’s  Palace  or  Windsor  Castle, 
how  much  right  Gothic  element  there  is  in  it,  and  how  much 
wanting.  And  I believe  this  inquiry  to  be  a pleasant  and  prof- 
itable one  ; and  that  there  will  be  found  something  more  than 
usually  interesting  in  tracing  out  this  grey,  shaaowy,  many- 
pinnacled  image  of  the  Gothic  spirit  within  us  ; and  discern- 


154 


THE  8 TONES  OF  VENICE. 


ing  what  fellowship  there  is  between  it  and  our  Northern 
hearts.  And  if,  at  any  point  of  the  inquiry,  I should  interfere 
with  any  of  the  reader’s  previously  formed  conceptions,  and 
use  the  term  Gothic  in  any  sense  which  he  would  not  will- 
ingly attach  to  it,  I do  not  ask  him  to  accept,  but  only  to  ex- 
amine and  understand,  my  interpretation,  as  necessary  to  the 
intelligibility  of  what  follows  in  the  rest  of  the  work. 

§ iv.  We  have,  then,  the  Gothic  character  submitted  to  our 
analysis,  just  as  the  rough  mineral  is  submitted  to  that  of  the 
chemist,  entangled  with  many  other  foreign  substances,  itself 
perhaps  in  no  place  pure,  or  ever  to  be  obtained  or  seen  in 
purity  for  more  than  an  instant ; but  nevertheless  a thing  of 
definite  and  separate  nature,  however  inextricable  or  confused 
in  appearance.  Now  observe  : the  chemist  defines  his  mineral 
by  two  separate  kinds  of  character  ; one  external,  its  crystal- 
line form,  hardness,  lustre,  &c.  ; the  other  internal,  the  pro- 
portions and  nature  of  its  constituent  atoms.  Exactly  in  the 
same  manner,  we  shall  find  that  Gothic  architecture  has  ex- 
ternal forms,  and  internal  elements.  Its  elements  are  certain 
mental  tendencies  of  the  builders,  legibly  expressed  in  it ; as 
fancifulness,  love  of  variety,  love  of  richness,  and  such  others. 
Its  external  forms  are  pointed  arches,  vaulted  roofs,  &c.  And 
unless  both  the  elements  and  the  forms  are  there,  we  have  no 
right  to  call  the  style  Gothic.  It  is  not  enough  that  it  has  the 
Form,  if  it  have  not  also  the  power  and  life.  It  is  not  enough 
that  it  has  the  Power,  if  it  have  not  the  form.  We  must  there- 
fore inquire  into  each  of  these  characters  successively  ; and 
determine  first,  what  is  the  Mental  Expression,  and  secondly, 
what  the  Material  Form,  of  Gothic  architecture,  properly  so 
called. 

1st.  Mental  Power  or  Expression.  What  characters,  we 
have  to  discover,  did  the  Gothic  builders  love,  or  instinctively 
express  in  their  work,  as  distinguished  from  all  other  builders  ? 

§ v.  Let  us  go  back  for  a moment  to  our  chemistry,  and 
note  that,  in  defining  a mineral  by  its  constituent  parts,  it  is 
not  one  nor  another  of  them,  that  can  make  up  the  mineral, 
but  the  union  of  all : for  instance,  it  is  neither  in  charcoal,  nor 
in  oxygen,  nor  in  lime,  that  there  is  the  making  of  chalk,  but 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


155 


in  the  combination  of  all  three  in  certain  measures  , they  are 
all  found  in  very  different  things  from  chalk,  and  there  is 
nothing  like  chalk  either  in  charcoal  or  in  oxygen,  but  they 
are  nevertheless  necessary  to  its  existence. 

So  in  the  various  mental  characters  which  make  up  the  soul 
of  Gothic.  It  is  not  one  nor  another  that  produces  it ; but 
ulieir  union  in  certain  measures.  Each  one  of  them  is  found 
in  many  other  architectures  besides  Gothic  ; but  Gothic  can- 
not exist  where  they  are  not  found,  or,  at  least,  where  their 
place  is  not  in  some  way  supplied.  Only  there  is  this  great 
difference  between  the  composition  of  the  mineral,  and  of  the 
architectural  style,  that  if  we  withdraw  one  of  its  elements 
from  the  stone,  its  form  is  utterly  changed,  and  its  existence 
as  such  and  such  a mineral  is  destroyed  ; but  if  we  withdraw 
one  of  its  mental  elements  from  the  Gothic  style,  it  is  only  a 
little  less  Gothic  than  it  was  before,  and  the  union  of  two  or 
three  of  its  elements  is  enough  already  to  bestow  a certain 
Gothicness  of  character,  which  gains  in  intensity  as  we  add 
the  others,  and  loses  as  we  again  withdraw  them. 

§ vi.  I believe,  then,  that  the  characteristic  or  moral  ele- 
ments of  Gothic  are  the  following,  placed  in  the  order  of  their 
importance  : 

1.  Savageness.  4.  Grotesqueness. 

2.  Changefulness.  5.  Rigidity. 

3.  Naturalism.  6.  Redundance. 

These  characters  are  here  expressed  as  belonging  to  the 
building  ; as  belonging  to  the  builder,  they  would  be  expressed 
thus  : 1.  Savageness,  or  Rudeness.  2.  Love  of  Change.  3. 

Love  of  Nature.  4.  Disturbed  Imagination.  5.  Obstinacy. 
G.  Generosity.  And  I repeat,  that  the  withdrawal  of  any  one, 
or  any  two,  will  not  at  once  destroy  the  Gothic  character  of  a 
building,  but  the  removal  of  a majority  of  them  will.  I shall 
proceed  to  examine  them  in  their  order. 

§ vii.  1.  Savageness.  I am  not  sure  when  the  word 
“ Gothic  ” was  first  generically  applied  to  the  architecture  of 
the  North  ; but  I presume  that,  whatever  the  date  of  its  orig* 
inal  usage,  it  was  intended  to  imply  reproach,  and  express 


156 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


the  barbaric  character  of  the  nations  among  whom  that  ar- 
chitecture arose.  It  never  implied  that  they  were  literally  of 
Gothic  lineage,  far  less  that  their  architecture  had  been  orig- 
inally invented  by  the  Goths  themselves  ; but  it  did  imply 
that  they  and  their  buildings  together  exhibited  a degree  of 
sternness  and  rudeness,  which,  in  contradistinction  to  the 
character  of  Southern  and  Eastern  nations,  appeared  like  a per- 
petual reflection  of  the  contrast  between  the  Goth  and  the 
Roman  in  their  first  encounter.  And  when  that  fallen  Roman, 
in  the  utmost  impotence  of  his  luxury,  and  insolence  of  his  guilt, 
became  the  model  for  the  imitation  of  civilized  Europe,  at  the 
close  of  the  so-called  Dark  ages,  the  word  Gothic  became  a 
term  of  unmitigated  contempt,  not  unmixed  with  aversion. 
From  that  contempt,  by  the  exertion  of  the  antiquaries  and 
architects  of  this  century,  Gothic  architecture  has  been  suffi- 
ciently vindicated  ; and  perhaps  some  among  us,  in  our  ad- 
miration of  the  magnificent  science  of  its  structure,  and  sacred- 
ness of  its  expression,  might  desire  that  the  term  of  ancient 
reproach  should  be  withdrawn,  and  some  other,  of  more  ap- 
parent honorableness,  adopted  in  its  place.  There  is  no  chance, 
as  there  is  no  need,  of  such  a substitution.  As  far  as  the  epithet 
was  used  scornfully,  it  was  used  falsely  ; but  there  is  no  re- 
proach in  the  word,  rightly  understood  ; on  the  contrary,  there 
is  a profound  truth,  which  the  instinct  of  mankind  almost  un- 
consciously recognizes.  It  is  true,  greatly  and  deeply  true, 
that  the  architecture  of  the  North  is  rude  and  wild  ; but  it 
is  not  true,  that,  for  this  reason,  we  are  to  condemn  it,  or  de- 
spise. Far  otherwise  : I believe  it  is  in  this  very  character 
that  it  deserves  our  profound  est  reverence. 

§ vin.  The  charts  of  the  world  which  have  been  drawn  up 
by  modern  science  have  thrown  into  a narrow  space  the  ex- 
pression of  a vast  amount  of  knowledge,  but  I have  never  yet 
seen  any  one  pictorial  enough  to  enable  the  spectator  to  im- 
agine the  kind  of  contrast  in  physical  character  which  exists 
between  Northern  and  Southern  countries.  We  know  the  dif- 
ferences in  detail,  but  we  have  not  that  broad  glance  and 
grasp  which  would  enable  us  to  feel  them  in  their  fulness. 
We  know  that  gentians  grow  on  the  Alps,  and  olives  on  the 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


157 


Apennines  ; but  we  do  not  enough  conceive  for  ourselves  that 
variegated  mosaic  of  the  world’s  surface  which  a bird  sees  in 
its  migration,  that  difference  between  the  district  of  the  gen- 
tian and  of  the  olive  which  the  stork  and  the  swallow  see  far 
off,  as  they  lean  upon  the  sirocco  wind.  Let  us,  for  a moment, 
try  to  raise  ourselves  even  above  the  level  of  their  flight,  and 
imagine  the  Mediterranean  lying  beneath  us  like  an  irregular 
lake,  and  all  its  ancient  promontories  sleeping  in  the  sun : 
here  and  there  an  angry  spot  of  thunder,  a grey  stain  of  storm, 
moving  upon  the  burning  field ; and  here  and  there  a fixed 
wreath  of  white  volcano  smoke,  surrounded  by  its  circle  of 
ashes  ; but  for  the  most  part  a great  peacefulness  of  light, 
Syria  and  Greece,  Italy  and  Spain,  laid  like  pieces  of  a golden 
pavement  into  the  sea-blue,  chased,  as  we  stoop  nearer  to 
them,  with  bossy  beaten  work  of  mountain  chains,  and  glow- 
ing softly  with  terraced  gardens,  and  flowers  heavy  with  frank- 
incense, mixed  among  masses  of  laurel,  and  orange  and  plumy 
palm,  that  abate  with  their  grey-green  shadows  the  burning  of 
the  marble  rocks,  and  of  the  ledges  of  porphyry  sloping  under 
lucent  sand.  Then  let  us  pass  farther  towards  the  fiorth, 
until  we  see  the  orient  colors  change  gradually  into  a vast  belt 
of  rainy  green,  where  the  pastures  of  Switzerland,  and  poplar 
valleys  of  France,  and  dark  forests  of  the  Danube  and  Carpa- 
thians stretch  from  the  mouths  of  the  Loire  to  those  of  the 
Volga,  seen  through  clefts  in  grey  swirls  of  rain-cloud  and 
flaky  veils  of  the  mist  of  the  brooks,  spreading  low  along  the 
pasture  lands  : and  then,  farther  north  still,  to  see  the  earth 
heave  into  mighty  masses  of  leaden  rock  and  heathy  moor, 
bordering  with  a broad  waste  of  gloomy  purple  that  belt  of 
field  and  wood,  and  splintering  into  irregular  and  grisly  islands 
amidst  the  northern  seas,  beaten  by  storm  and  chilled  by  ice- 
drift,  and  tormented  by  furious  pulses  of  contending  tide, 
until  the  roots  of  the  last  forests  fail  from  among  the  hill 
ravines,  and  the  hunger  of  the  north  wind  bites  their  peaks 
into  barrenness  ; and,  at  last,  the  wall  of  ice,  durable  like  iron, 
sets,  deathlike,  its  white  teeth  against  us  out  of  the  polar  twi- 
light. And,  having  once  traversed  in  thought  its  gradation  of 
the  zoned  iris  of  the  earth  in  all  its  material  vastness,  let  us 


158 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


go  down  nearer  to  it,  and  watch  the  parallel  change  in  the 
belt  of  animal  life : the  multitudes  of  swift  and  brilliant 
creatures  that  glance  in  the  air  and  sea,  or  tread  the  sands  of 
the  southern  zone  ; striped  zebras  and  spotted  leopards,  glis- 
tening serpents,  and  birds  arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet.  Let 
us  contrast  their  delicacy  and  brilliancy  of  color,  and  swiftness 
of  motion,  with  the  frost-cramped  strength,  and  shaggy  cov- 
ering, and  dusky  plumage  of  the  northern  tribes;  contrast  the 
Arabian  horse  with  the  Shetland,  the  tiger  and  leopard  with 
the  wolf  and  bear,  the  antelope  with  the  elk,  the  bird  of  para- 
dise with  the  osprey : and  then,  submissively  acknowledging 
the  great  laws  by  which  the  earth  and  all  that  it  bears  are 
ruled  throughout  their  being,  let  us  not  condemn,  but  rejoice 
at  the  expression  by  man  of  his  own  rest  in  the  statutes  of 
the  lands  that  gave  him  birth.  Let  us  watch  him  with  rever- 
ence as  he  sets  side  by  side  the  burning  gems,  and  smoothes 
with  soft  sculpture  the  jasper  pillars,  that  are  to  reflect  a cease- 
less sunshine,  and  rise  into  a cloudless  sky  : but  not  with  less 
reverence  let  us  stand  by  him,  when,  with  rough  strength  and 
burned  stroke,  he  smites  an  uncouth  animation  out  of  the 
rocks  which  he  has  torn  from  among  the  moss  of  the  moor- 
land, and  heaves  into  the  darkened  air  the  pile  of  iron  buttress 
and  rugged  wall,  instinct  with  work  of  an  imagination  as 
wild  and  wayward  as  the  northern  sea ; creations  of  un- 
gainly shape  and  rigid  limb,  but  full  of  wolfish  life ; fierce  as 
the  winds  that  beat,  and  changeful  as  the  clouds  that  shade 
them. 

There  is,  I repeat,  no  degradation,  no  reproach  in  this,  but 
all  dignity  and  honorableness ; and  we  should  err  grievously 
in  refusing  either  to  recognise  as  an  essential  character  of  the 
existing  architecture  of  the  North,  or  to  admit  as  a desirable 
character  in  that  which  it  yet  may  be,  this  wildness  of  thought, 
and  roughness  of  work  ; this  look  of  mountain  brotherhood 
between  the  cathedral  and  the  Alp  ; this  magnificence  of  sturdy 
power,  put  forth  only  the  more  energetically  because  the  fine 
finger-touch  was  chilled  away  by  the  frosty  wind,  and  the  eye 
dimmed  by  the  moor-mist,  or  blinded  by  the  hail ; this  out- 
speaking of  the  strong  spirit  of  men  who  may  not  gather  re- 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


159 


dundant  fruitage  from  the  earth,  nor  bask  in  dreamy  benignity 
of  sunshine,  but  must  break  the  rock  for  bread,  and  cleave  the 
forest  for  fire,  and  show,  even  in  what  they  did  for  their  de- 
light, some  of  the  hard  habits  of  the  arm  and  heart  that  grew 
on  them  as  they  swung  the  axe  or  pressed  the  plough. 

§ ix.  If,  however,  the  savageness  of  Gothic  architecture, 
merely  as  an  expression  of  its  origin  among  Northern  nations, 
may  be  considered,  in  some  sort,  a noble  character,  it  possesses 
a higher  nobility  still,  when  considered  as  an  index,  not  of  cli- 
mate, but  of  religious  principle. 

In  the  13th  and  14th  paragraphs  of  Chapter  XXI.  of  the 
first  volume  of  this  work,  it  was  noticed  that  the  systems  of 
architectural  ornament,  properly  so  called,  might  be  divided 
into  three  : — 1.  Servile  ornament,  in  which  the  execution  or 
power  of  the  inferior  workman  is  entirely  subjected  to  the  in- 
tellect of  the  higher : — 2.  Constitutional  ornament,  in  which 
the  executive  inferior  power  is,  to  a certain  point,  emancipated 
and  independent,  having  a will  of  its  own,  yet  confessing  its 
inferiority  and  rendering  obedience  to  higher  powers  ; — and 
3.  Revolutionary  ornament,  in  which  no  executive  inferiority 
is  admitted  at  all.  I must  here  explain  the  nature  of  these 
divisions  at  somewhat  greater  length. 

Of  Servile  ornament,  the  principal  schools  are  the  Greek, 
Ninevite,  and  Egyptian ; but  their  servility  is  of  different 
kinds.  The  Greek  master- workman  was  far  advanced  in 
knowledge  and  power  above  the  Assyrian  or  Egyptian. 
Neither  he  nor  those  for  whom  he  worked  could  endure  the 
appearance  of  imperfection  in  anything  ; and,  therefore,  what 
ornament  he  appointed  to  be  done  by  those  beneath  him  was 
composed  of  mere  geometrical  forms, — balls,  ridges,  and  per- 
fectly symmetrical  foliage, — which  could  be  executed  with  ab- 
solute precision  by  line  and  rule,  and  were  as  perfect  in  their 
way  when  completed,  as  his  own  figure  sculpture.  The  Assyr- 
ian and  Egyptian,  on  the  contrary,  less  cognizant  of  accurate 
form  in  anything,  were  content  to  allow  their  figure  sculpture 
to  be  executed  by  inferior  workmen,  but  lowered  the  method 
of  its  treatment  to  a standard  which  every  workman  could 
reach,  and  then  trained  him  by  discipline  so  rigid,  that  there 


160 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


was  no  chance  of  his  falling  beneath  the  standard  appointed* 
The  Greek  gave  to  the  lower  workman  no  subject  which  he 
could  not  perfectly  execute.  The  Assyrian  gave  him  subjects 
which  he  could  only  execute  imperfectly,  but  fixed  a legal 
standard  for  his  imperfection.  The  workman  was,  in  both 
systems,  a slave.* 

§ x.  But  in  the  mediaeval,  or  especially  Christian,  system  of 
ornament,  this  slavery  is  done  away  with  altogether  ; Chris- 
tianity having  recognized,  in  small  things  as  well  as  great,  the 
individual  value  of  every  soul.  But  it  not  only  recognizes  its 
value  ; it  confesses  its  imperfection,  in  only  bestowing  dignity 
upon  the  acknowledgment  of  unworthiness.  That  admission 
of  lost  power  and  fallen  nature,  which'  the  Greek  or  Ninevite 
felt  to  be  intensely  painful,  and,  as  far  as  might  be,  altogether 
refused,  the  Christian  makes  daily  and  hourly,  contemplating 
the  fact  of  it  without  fear,  as  tending,  in  the  end,  to  God’s 
greater  glory.  Therefore,  to  every  spirit  which  Christianity 
summons  to  her  service,  her  exhortation  is  : Do  what  you 
can,  and  confess  frankly  what  you  are  unable  to  do  ; neither 
let  your  effort  be  shortened  for  fear  of  failure,  nor  your  con- 
fession silenced  for  fear  of  shame.  And  it  is,  perhaps,  the 
principal  admirableness  of  the  Gothic  schools  of  architecture, 
that  they  thus  receive  the  results  of  the  labor  of  inferior 
minds  ; and  out  of  fragments  full  of  imperfection,  and  be- 
traying that  imperfection  in  every  touch,  indulgently  raise  up 
a stately  and  unaccusable  whole. 

§ xi.  But  the  modern  English  mind  has  this  much  in  com- 
mon with  that  of  the  Greek,  that  it  intensely  desires,  in  all 
things,  the  utmost  completion  or  perfection  compatible  with 
their  nature.  This  is  a noble  character  in  the  abstract,  but 

* The  third  kind  of  ornament,  the  Renaissance,  is  that  in  which  the 
inferior  detail  becomes  principal,  the  executor  of  every  minor  portion 
being  required  to  exhibit  skill  and  possess  knowledge  as  great  as  that 
which  is  possessed  by  the  master  of  the  design ; and  in  the  endeavor  to 
endow  him  with  this  skill  and  knowledge,  his  own  original  power  is 
overwhelmed,  and  the  whole  building  becomes  a wearisome  exhibition 
of  well-educated  imbecility.  We  must  fully  inquire  into  the  nature  of 
this  form  of  error,  when  we  arrive  at  the  examination  of  the  Renais* 
sance  schools 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


161 


becomes  ignoble  when  it  causes  us  to  forget  the  relative  dig- 
nities of  the  nature  itself,  and  to  prefer  the  perfectness  of  the 
lower  nature  to  the  imperfection  of  the  higher  ; not  consider- 
ing that  as,  judged  by  such  a rule,  all  the  brute  animals  would 
be  preferable  to  man,  because  more  perfect  in  their  functions 
and  kind,  and  yet  are  always  held  inferior  to  him,  so  also  in 
the  works  of  man,  those  which  are  more  perfect  in  their  kind 
are  always  inferior  to  those  which  are,  in  their  nature,  liable 
to  more  faults  and  shortcomings.  For  the  finer  the  nature, 
the  more  flaws  it  will  show  through  the  clearness  of  it  ; and 
it  is  a law  of  this  universe,  that  the  best  things  shall  be  sel- 
domest  seen  in  their  best  form.  The  wild  grass  grows  well  and 
strongly,  one  year  with  another  ; but  the  wheat  is.  according  to 
the  greater  nobleness  of  its  nature,  liable  to  the  bitterer  blight. 
And  therefore,  while  in  all  things  that  we  see,  or  do,  we  are  to 
desire  perfection,  and  strive  for  it,  we  are  nevertheless  no  to  set 
the  meaner  thing,  in  its  narrow  accomplishment,  above  the 
nobler  thing,  in  its  mighty  progress  ; not  to  esteem  smooth 
minuteness  above  shattered  majesty  ; not  to  prefer  mean  victory 
to  honorable  defeat ; not  to  lower  the  level  of  our  aim,  that  we 
may  the  more  surely  enjoy  the  complacency  of  success.  But, 
above  all,  in  our  dealings  with  the  souls  of  other  men,  we  are  to 
take  care  how  we  check,  by  severe  requirement  or  narrow  cau- 
tion, efforts  which  might  otherwise  lead  to  a noble  issue  ; and, 
still  more,  how  we  withhold  our  admiration  from  great  excel- 
lences, because  they  are  mingled  with  rough  faults.  Now,  in  the 
make  and  nature  of  every  man,  however  rude  or  simple,  whom 
we  employ  in  manual  labor,  there  are  some  powers  for  better 
things  : some  tardy  imagination,  torpid  capacity  of  emotion, 
tottering  steps  of  thought,  there  are,  even  at  the  worst  ; and 
in  most  cases  it  is  all  our  own  fault  that  they  are  tardy  or 
torpid.  But  they  cannot  be  strengthened,  unless  we  are 
content  to  take  them  in  their  feebleness,  and  unless  we  prize 
and  honor  them  in  their  imperfection  above  the  best  and 
most  perfect  manual  skill.  And  this  is  what  we  have  to  do 
with  all  our  laborers  ; to  look  for  the  thoughtfyl  part  of  them, 
and  get  that  out  of  them,  whatever  we  lose  for  it,  whatever 
faults  and  errors  we  are  obligee).  to  take  with  it.  For  the 
Vol.  II. — 11 


162 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


best  that  is  in  them  cannot  manifest  itself,  but  in  company 
with  much  error.  Understand  this  clearly  : You  can  teach  a 
man  to  draw  a straight  line,  and  to  cut  one  ; to  strike  a 
curved  line,  and  to  carve  it ; and  to  copy  and  carve  any  num- 
ber of  given  lines  or  forms,  with  admirable  speed  and  perfect 
precision  ; and  you  find  his  work  perfect  of  its  kind  : but  if 
you  ask  him  to  think  about  any  of  those  forms,  to  consider  if 
he  cannot  find  any  better  in  his  own  head,  he  stops  ; his  exe- 
cution becomes  hesitating  ; he  thinks,  and  ten  to  one  he 
thinks  wrong;  ten  to  one  he  makes  a mistake  in  the  first 
touch  he  gives  to  his  work  as  a thinking  being.  But  you 
have  made  a man  of  him  for  all  that.  He  was  only  a machine 
before,  an  animated  tool. 

§ xii.  And  observe,  you  are  put  to  stern  choice  in  this 
matter.  You  must  either  make  a tool  of  the  creature,  or  a 
man  of  him.  You  cannot  make  both.  Men  were  not  intended 
to  work  with  the  accuracy  of  tools,  to  be  precise  and  perfect 
in  all  their  actions.  If  you  will  have  that  precision  out  of 
them,  and  make  their  fingers  measure  degrees  like  cog-wheels, 
and  their  arms  strike  curves  like  compasses,  you  must  un- 
humanize them.  All  the  energy  of  their  spirits  must  be  given 
to  make  cogs  and  compasses  of  themselves.  All  their  atten- 
tion and  strength  must  go  to  the  accomplishment  of  the  mean 
act.  The  eye  of  the  soul  must  be  bent  upon  the  finger-point, 
and  the  soul’s  force  must  fill  all  the  invisible  nerves  that  guide 
it,  ten  hours  a day,  that  it  may  not  err  from  its  steely  pre- 
cision, and  so  soul  and  sight  be  worn  away,  and  the  whole 
human  being  be  lost  at  last — a heap  of  sawdust,  so  far  as  its 
intellectual  work  in  this  world  is  concerned  ; saved  only  by 
its  Heart,  which  cannot  go  into  the  form  of  cogs  and  com- 
passes, but  expands,  after  the  ten  hours  are  over,  into  fireside 
humanity.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  will  make  a man  of 
the  working  creature,  you  cannot  make  a tool.  Let  him  but 
begin  to  imagine,  to  think,  to  try  to  do  anything  worth  do- 
ing ; and  the  engine-turned  precision  is  lost  at  once.  Out 
come  all  his  roughness,  all  his  dulness,  all  his  incapability ; 
shame  upon  shame,  failure  upon  failure,  pause  after  pause  : 
but  out  comes  the  whole  majesty  of  him  also  ; and  we  know 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


163 


the  height  of  it  only,  when  we  see  the  clouds  settling  upon 
him.  And,  whether  the  clouds  be  bright  or  dark,  there  will 
be  transfiguration  behind  and  within  them. 

§ xiii.  And  now,  reader,  look  round  this  English  room  of 
yours,  about  which  you  have  been  proud  so  often,  because  thje 
work  of  it  was  so  good  and  strong,  and  the  ornaments  of  it 
so  finished.  Examine  again  all  those  accurate  mouldings,  and 
perfect  polishings,  and  unerring  adjustments  of  the  seasoned 
wood  and  tempered  steel.  Many  a time  you  have  exulted 
over  them,  and  thought  how  great  England  was,  because  her 
slightest  work  was  done  so  thoroughly.  Alas  ! if  read  rightly, 
these  perfectnesses  are  signs  of  a slavery  in  our  England  a 
thousand  times  more  bitter  and  more  degrading  than  that  of 
the  scourged  African,  or  helot  Greek.  Men  may  be  beaten, 
chained,  tormented,  yoked  like  cattle,  slaughtered  like  summer 
flies,  and  yet  remain  in  one  sense,  and  the  best  sense,  free. 
But  to  smother  their  souls  within  them,  to  blight  and  hew  intc 
rotting  pollards  the  suckling  branches  of  their  human  intellh 
gence,  to  make  the  flesh  and  skin  which,  after  the  worm’s 
work  on  it,  is  to  see  God,  into  leathern  thongs  to  yoke  ma- 
chinery with, — this  it  is  to  be  slave-masters  indeed;  and  there 
might  be  more  freedom  in  England,  though  her  feudal  lords’ 
lightest  words  were  worth  men’s  lives,  and  though  the  blood 
of  the  vexed  husbandman  dropped  in  the  furrows  of  her  fields, 
than  there  is  while  the  animation  of  her  multitudes  is  sent 
like  fuel  to  feed  the  factory  smoke,  and  the  strength  of  them 
is  given  daily  to  be  wasted  into  the  fineness  of  a web,  or  racked 
into  the  exactness  of  a line. 

§ xiv.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  go  forth  again  to  gaze  upon 
the  old  cathedral  front,  where  you  have  smiled  so  often  at  the 
fantastic  ignorance  of  the  old  sculptors  : examine  once  more 
those  ugly  goblins,  and  formless  monsters,  and  stern  statues, 
anatomiless  and  rigid  ; but  do  not  mock  at  them,  for  they  are 
signs  of  the  life  and  liberty  of  every  workman  who  struck  the 
stone  ; a freedom  of  thought,  and  rank  in  scale  of  being,  such 
as  no  laws,  no  charters,  no  charities  can  secure  ; but  which  it 
must  be  the  first  aim  of  all  Europe  at  this  day  to  regain  for 
her  children. 


164 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


§ xv.  Let  me  not  be  thought  to  speak  wildly  or  extrava* 
gantly.  It  is  verily  this  degradation  of  the  operative  into  a 
machine,  which,  more  than  any  other  evil  of  the  times,  is  lead- 
ing the  mass  of  the  nations  everywhere  into  vain,  incoherent* 
destructive  struggling  for  a freedom  of  which  they  cannot  ex- 
plain the  nature  to  themselves.  Their  universal  outcry  against 
wealth,  and  against  nobility,  is  not  forced  from  them  either 
by  the  pressure  of  famine,  or  the  sting  of  mortified  pride. 
These  do  much,  and  have  done  much  in  all  ages ; but  the 
foundations  of  society  were  never  yet  shaken  as  they  are  at 
this  day.  It  is  not  that  men  are  ill  fed,  but  that  they  have  no 
pleasure  in  the  work  by  which  they  make  their  bread  ^xid 
therefore  look  to  wealth  as  the  only  means  of  pleasure.  It  is 
not  that  men  are  pained  by  the  scorn  of  the  upper  classes,  but 
they  cannot  endure  their  own  ; for  they  feel  that  the  kind  of 
labor  to  which  they  are  condemned  is  verily  a degrading  one, 
and  makes  them  less  than  men.  Never  had  the  upper  classes 
so  much  sympathy  with  the  lower,  or  charity  for  them,  as  they 
have  at  this  day,  and  yet  never  were  they  so  much  hated  by 
them : for,  of  old,  the  separation  between  the  noble  and  the 
poor  was  merely  a wall  built  by  law  ; now  it  is  a veritable 
difference  in  level  of  standing,  a precipice  between  upper  and 
lower  grounds  in  the  field  of  humanity,  and  there  is  pesti- 
lential air  at  the  bottom  of  it.  I know  not  if  a day  is  ever  to 
come  when  the  nature  of  right  freedom  will  be  understood, 
and  when  men  will  see  that  to  obey  another  man,  to  labor  for 
him,  yield  reverence  to  him  or  to  his  place,  is  not  slavery.  It 
is  often  the  best  kind  of  liberty, — liberty  from  care.  The  man 
who  says  to  one,  Go,  and  he  goeth,  and  to  another,  Come,  and 
he  cometh,  has,  in  most  cases,  more  sense  of  restraint  and 
difficulty  than  the  man  who  obeys  him.  The  movements  of 
the  one  are  hindered  by  the  burden  on  his  shoulder  ; of  the 
other,  by  the  bridle  on  his  lips  : there  is  no  way  by  which  the 
burden  may  be  lightened  ; but  we  need  not  suffer  from  the 
bridle  if  we  do  not  champ  at  it.  To  yield  reverence  to  an- 
other, to  hold  ourselves  and  our  lives  at  his  disposal,  is  not 
slavery  ; often,  it  is  the  noblest  state  in  which  a man  can  live 
in  this  world.  There  is,  indeed,  a reverence  which  is  servile^ 


THE  NATURE  OE  GOTHIC. 


165 


that  is  to  say,  irrational  or  selfish*;  but  there  is  also  noble 
reverence,  that  is  to  say,  reasonable  and  loving  ; and  a man  is 
never  so  noble  as  when  he  is  reverent  in  this  kind  ; nay,  even 
if  the  feeling  pass  the  bounds  of  mere  reason,  so  that  it  be 
loving,  a man  is  raised  by  it.  Which  had,  in  reality,  most  of 
the  serf  nature  in  him, — the  Irish  peasant  who  was  lying  in 
wait  yesterday  for  his  landlord,  with  his  musket  muzzle 
thrust  through  the  ragged  hedge  ; or  that  old  mountain  ser- 
vant, who,  200  years  ago,  at  Inverkeithing,  gave  up  his  own 
life  and  the  lives  of  his  seven  sons  for  his  chief  ? * — and  as 
each  fell,  calling  forth  his  brother  to  the  death,  “ Another  for 
Hector  ! ” And  therefore,  in  all  ages  and  all  countries,  rever- 
ence has  been  paid  and  sacrifice  made  by  men  to  each  other, 
not  only  without  complaint,  but  rejoicingly  ; and  famine,  and 
peril,  and  sword,  and  all  evil,  and  all  shame,  have  been  borne 
willingly  in  the  causes  of  masters  and  kings  ; for  all  these 
gifts  of  the  heart  ennobled  the  men  who  gave,  not  less  than 
the  men  who  i^eceived  them,  and  nature  prompted,  and  God 
rewarded  the  sacrifice.  But  to  feel  their  souls  withering 
within  them,  unthanked,  to  find  their  whole  being  sunk  into 
an  unrecognized  abyss,  to  be  counted  off  into  a heap  of  mech- 
anism, numbered  with  its  wheels,  and  weighed  with  its  ham- 
mer strokes  ; — this  nature  bade  not, — this  God  blesses  not, — 
this  humanity  for  no  long  time  is  able  to  endure. 

§ xvi.  We  have  much  studied  and  much  perfected,  of  late, 
the  great  civilized  invention  of  the  division  of  labor  ; only  we 
give  it  a false  name.  It  is  not,  truly  speaking,  the  labor  that 
is  divided  ; but  the  men  : — Divided  into  mere  segments  of 
men — broken  into  small  fragments  and  crumbs  of  life  ; so 
that  all  the  little  piece  of  intelligence  that  is  left  in  a man  is 
not  enough  to  make  a pin,  or  a nail,  but  exhausts  itself  in 
making  the  point  of  a pin,  or  the  head  of  a nail.  Now  it  is  a 
good  and  desirable  thing,  truly,  to  make  many  pins  in  a day  ; 
but  if  we  could  only  see  with  what  crystal  sand  their  points 
were  polished, — sand  of  human  soul,  much  to  be  magnified 
before  it  can  be  discerned  for  what  it  is, — we  should  think 
there  might  be  some  loss  in  it  also.  And  the  great  cry  that 
* Vide  Preface  to  “Fair  Maid  of  Perth.” 


166 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


rises  from  all  our  manufacturing  cities,  louder  than  their  fur* 
nace  blast,  is  all  in  very  deed  for  this, — that  we  manufact- 
ure everything  there  except  men;  we  blanch  cotton,  and 
strengthen  steel,  and  refine  sugar,  and  shape  pottery  ; but  to 
brighten,  to  strengthen,  to  refine,  or  to  form  a single  living 
spirit,  never  enters  into  our  estimate  of  advantages.  And  all 
the  evil  to  which  that  cry  is  urging  our  myriads  can  be  met 
only  in  one  way  : not  by  teaching  nor  preaching,  for  to  teach 
them  is  but  to  show  them  their  misery,  and  to  preach  to  them, 
if  we  do  nothing  more  than  preach,  is  to  mock  at  it.  It  can 
be  met  only  by  a right  understanding,  on  the  part  of  all  classes, 
of  what  kinds  of  labor  are  good  for  men,  raising  them,  and 
making  them  happy  ; by  a determined  sacrifice  of  such  con- 
venience, or  beauty,  or  cheapness  as  is  to  be  got  only  by  the 
degradation  of  the  workman  ; and  by  equally  determined  de- 
mand for  the  products  and  results  of  healthy  and  ennobling 
labor. 

§ xvn.  And  how,  it  will  be  asked,  are  these  products  to  be 
recognized,  and  this  demand  to  be  regulated  ? Easily : by 
the  observance  of  three  broad  and  simple  rules  : 

1.  Never  encourage  the  manufacture  of  any  article  not 
absolutely  necessary,  in  the  production  of  which  Invention  has 
no  share. 

2.  Never  demand  an  exact  finish  for  its  own  sake,  but  only 
for  some  practical  or  noble  end. 

3.  Never  encourage  imitation  or  copying  of  any  kind,  ex- 
cept for  the  sake  of  preserving  record  of  great  works. 

The  second  of  these  principles  is  the  only  one  which  di- 
rectly rises  out  of  the  consideration  of  our  immediate  subject  ; 
but  I shall  briefly  explain  the  meaning  and  extent  of  the  first 
also,  reserving  the  enforcement  of  the  third  for  another  place. 

1.  Never  encourage  the  manufacture  of  anything  not  nec- 
essary, in  the  production  of  which  invention  has  no  share. 

For  instance.  Glass  beads  are  utterly  unnecessary,  and 
there  is  no  design  or  thought  employed  in  their  manufacture. 
They  are  formed  by  first  drawing  out  the  glass  into  rods ; 
these  rods  are  chopped  up  into  fragments  of  the  size  of  beads 
by  the  human  band,  and  the  fragments  are  then  rounded  in 


TUB  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


167 


the  furnace.  The  men  who  chop  up  the  rods  sit  at  their  work 
all  day,  their  hands  vibrating  with  a perpetual  and  exquisitely 
timed  palsy,  and  the  beads  dropping  beneath  their  vibration 
like  hail.  Neither  they,  nor  the  men  who  draw  out  the  rods, 
or  fuse  the  fragments,  have  the  smallest  occasion  for  the  use 
of  any  single  human  faculty  ; and  every  young  lady,  there- 
fore, who  buys  glass  beads  is  engaged  in  the  slave-trade,  and 
in  a much  more  cruel  one  than  that  which  we  have  so  long 
been  endeavoring  to  put  down. 

But  glass  cups  and  vessels  may  become  the  subjects  of  ex- 
quisite invention  ; and  if  in  buying  these  we  pay  for  the  in- 
vention, that  is  to  say  for  the  beautiful  form,  or  color,  or  en- 
graving, and  not  for  mere  finish  of  execution,  we  are  doing 
good  to  humanity. 

§ xviii.  So,  again,  the  cutting  of  precious  stones,  in  all  ordi- 
nary  cases,  requires  little  exertion  of  any  mental  faculty ; 
some  tact  and  judgment  in  avoiding  flaws,  and  so  on,  but 
nothing  to  bring  out  the  whole  mind.  Every  person  who 
wears  cut  jewels  merely  for  the  sake  of  their  value  is,  there- 
fore, a slave-driver. 

But  the  working  of  the  goldsmith,  and  the  various  de- 
signing of  grouped  jewellery  and  enamel-work,  may  become 
the  subject  of  the  most  noble  human  intelligence.  Therefore, 
money  spent  in  the  purchase  of  well-designed  plate,  of  pre- 
cious engraved  vases,  cameos,  or  enamels,  does  good  to  hu- 
manity ; and,  in  work  of  this  kind,  jewels  ma}^  be  employed 
to  heighten  its  splendor  ; and  their  cutting  is  then  a price 
paid  for  the  attainment  of  a noble  end,  and  thus  perfectly  al- 
lowable. 

§ xix.  I shall  perhaps  press  this  law  farther  elsewhere,  but 
our  immediate  concern  is  chiefly  with  the  second,  namely, 
never  to  demand  an  exact  finish,  when  it  does  not  lead  to  a 
noble  end.  For  observe,  I have  only  dwelt  upon  the  rudeness 
of  Gothic,  or  any  other  kind  of  imperfectness,  as  admirable, 
where  it  was  impossible  to  get  design  or  thought  without  it. 
If  }^ou  are  to  have  the  thought  of  a rough  and  untaught  man, 
you  must  have  it  in  a rough  and  untaught  way  ; but  from  an 
educated  man,  who  can  without  effort  express  his  thoughts  iu 


168 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, . 


an  educated  way,  take  the  graceful  expression,  and  be  thank 
ful.  Only  get  the  thought,  and  do  not  silence  the  peasant  be- 
cause he  cannot  speak  good  grammar,  or  until  you  have  taught 
him  his  grammar.  Grammar  and  refinement  are  good  things, 
both,  only  be  sure  of  the  better  thing  first.  And  thus  in  art, 
delicate  finish  is  desirable  from  the  greatest  masters,  and  is 
always  given  by  them.  In  some  places  Michael  Angelo,  Leo- 
nardo, Phidias,  Perugino,  Turner,  all  finished  with  the  most 
exquisite  care  ; and  the  finish  they  give  always  leads  to  the 
fuller  accomplishment  of  their  noble  purposes.  But  lower 
men  than  these  cannot  finish,  for  it  requires  consummate 
knowledge  to  finish  consummately,  and  then  we  must  take 
their  thoughts  as  they  are  able  to  give  them.  So  the  rule  is 
simple  : Always  look  for  invention  first,  and  after  that,  for 
such  execution  as  will  help  the  invention,  and  as  the  inventor 
is  capable  of  without  painful  effort,  and  no  more . Above  all, 
demand  no  refinement  of  execution  where  there  is  no  thought, 
for  that  is  slaves’  work,  unredeemed.  Bather  choose  rough 
work  than  smooth  work,  so  only  that  the  practical  purpose  be 
answered,  and  never  imagine  there  is  reason  to  be  proud  of 
anything  that  may  be  accomplished  by  patience  and  sand- 
paper. 

§ xx.  I shall  only  give  one  example,  which  however  will 
show  the  reader  what  I mean,  from  the  manufacture  already 
alluded  to,  that  of  glass.  Our  modern  glass  is  exquisitely 
clear  in  its  substance,  true  in  its  form,  accurate  in  its  cutting. 
We  are  proud  of  this.  We  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it.  The 
old  Venice  glass  was  muddy,  inaccurate  in  all  its  forms,  and 
clumsily  cut,  if  at  all.  And  the  old  Venetian  was  justly  proud 
of  it.  For  there  is  this  difference  between  the  English  and 
Venetian  workman,  that  the  former  thinks  only  of  accurately 
matching  his  patterns,  and  getting  his  curves  perfectly  true 
and  his  edges  perfectly  sharp,  and  becomes  a mere  machine 
for  rounding  curves  and  sharpening  edges,  while  the  old  Vene- 
tian cared  not  a whit  whether  his  edges  were  sharp  or  not,  but 
he  invented  a new  design  for  every  glass  that  he  made,  and 
never  moulded  a handle  or  lip  without  a new7  fancy  in  it. 
And  therefore,  though  some  Venetian  glass  is  ugly  and  clumsy 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


169 


enough,  when  made  by  clumsy  and  uninventive  workmen, 
other  Venetian  glass  is  so  lovely  in  its  forms  that  no  price  is 
too  great  for  it ; and  we  never  see  the  same  form  in  it  twice. 
Now  you  cannot  have  the  finish  and  the  varied  form  too.  If 
the  workman  is  thinking  about  his  edges,  he  cannot  be  think- 
ing of  his  design  ; if  of  his  design,  he  cannot  think  of  his 
edges.  Choose  whether  you  will  pay  for  the  lovely  form  or 
the  perfect  finish,  and  choose  at  the  same  moment  whether 
you  will  make  the  worker  a man  or  a grindstone. 

§ xxi.  Nay,  but  the  reader  interrupts  me, — “If  the  work- 
man can  design  beautifully,  I would  not  have  him  kept  at  the 
furnace.  Let  him  be  taken  away  and  made  a gentleman,  and 
have  a studio,  and  design  his  glass  there,  and  I will  have  it 
blown  and  cut  for  him  by  common  workmen,  and  so  I will 
have  my  design  and  my  finish  too.” 

All  ideas  of  this  kind  are  founded  upon  two  mistaken  sup- 
positions : the  first,  that  one  man’s  thoughts  can  be,  or  ought 
to  be,  executed  by  another  man’s  hands ; the  second,  that 
manual  labor  is  a degradation,  when  it  is  governed  by  intellect. 

On  a large  scale,  and  in  work  determinable  by  line  and 
rule,  it  is  indeed  both  possible  and  necessary  that  the  thoughts 
of  one  man  should  be  carried  out  by  the  labor  of  others ; in  this 
sense  I have  already  defined  the  best  architecture  to  be  the 
expression  of  the  mind  of  manhood  by  the  hands  of  childhood. 
But  on  a smaller  scale,  and  in  a design  which  cannot  be  math- 
ematically defined,  one  man’s  thoughts  can  never  be  expressed 
by  another  : and  the  difference  between  the  spirit  of  touch  of 
the  man  who  is  inventing,  and  of  the  man  wTho  is  obeying  direc- 
tions, is  often  all  the  difference  between  a great  and  a com- 
mon work  of  art.  How  wide  the  separation  is  between  orig- 
inal and  second-hand  execution,  I shall  endeavor  to  show 
elsewhere  ; it  is  not  so  much  to  our  purpose  here  as  to  mark 
the  other  and  more  fatal  error  of  despising  manual  labor  when 
governed  by  intellect ; for  it  is  no  less  fatal  an  error  to  despise 
it  when  thus  regulated  by  intellect,  than  to  value  it  for  its  own 
sake.  We  are  always  in  these  days  endeavoring  to  separate 
the  two  ; we  want  one  man  to  be  always  thinking,  and  another 
to  be  always  working,  and  we  call  one  a gentleman,  and  the 


170 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


other  an  operative  ; whereas  the  workman  ought  often  to  be 
thinking,  and  the  thinker  often  to  be  working,  and  both 
should  be  gentlemen,  in  the  best  sense.  As  it  is,  we  make 
both  ungentle,  the  one  envying,  the  other  despising,  his 
brother ; and  the  mass  of  society  is  made  up  of  morbid  think- 
ers, and  miserable  workers.  Now  it  is  only  by  labor  that 
thought  can  be  made  healthy,  and  only  by  thought  that  labor 
can  be  made  happy,  and  the  two  cannot  be  separated  with  im- 
punity. It  would  be  well  if  all  of  us  were  good  handicrafts- 
men in  some  kind,  and  the  dishonor  of  manual  labor  done 
away  with  altogether ; so  that  though  there  should  still  be  a 
trenchant  distinction  of  race  between  nobles  and  commoners, 
there  should  not,  among  the  latter,  be  a trenchant  distinction 
of  employment,  as  between  idle  and  working  men,  or  between 
men  of  liberal  and  illiberal  professions.  All  professions  should 
be  liberal,  and  there  should  be  less  pride  felt  in  peculiarity  of 
employment,  and  more  in  excellence  of  achievement.  And 
yet  more,  in  each  several  profession,  no  master  should  be  too 
proud  to  do  its  hardest  work.  The  painter  should  grind  his 
own  colors ; the  architect  work  in  the  mason’s  yard  with  his 
men  ; the  master-manufacturer  be  himself  a more  skilful 
operative  than  any  man  in  his  mills  ; and  the  distinction  be- 
tween one  man  and  another  be  only  in  experience  and  skill, 
and  the  authority  and  wealth  which  these  must  naturally  and 
justly  obtain. 

§ xxn.  I should  be  led  far  from  the  matter  in  hand,  if  I 
were  to  pursue  this  interesting  subject.  Enough,  I trust,  has 
been  said  to  show  the  reader  that  the  rudeness  or  imperfec- 
tion which  at  first  rendered  the  term  “Gothic”  one  of  re- 
proach is  indeed,  when  rightly  understood,  one  of  the  most 
noble  characters  of  Christian  architecture,  and  not  only  a 
noble  but  an  essential  one.  It  seems  a fantastic  paradox,  but 
it  is  nevertheless  a most  important  truth,  that  no  architecture 
can  be  truly  noble  which  is  not  imperfect.  And  this  is  easily 
demonstrable.  For  since  the  architect,  whom  we  will  suppose 
capable  of  doing  all  in  perfection,  cannot  execute  the  whole 
with  his  own  hands,  he  must  either  make  slaves  of  his  work- 
men in  the  old  Greek,  and  present  English  fashion,  and  level 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


171 


his  work  to  a slave’s  capacities,  which  is  to  degrade  it ; or 
else  he  must  take  his  workmen  as  he  finds  them,  and  let  them 
show  their  weaknesses  together  with  their  strength,  which 
will  involve  the  Gothic  imperfection,  but  render  the  whole 
work  as  noble  as  the  intellect  of  the  age  can  make  it. 

g xxiii.  But  the  principle  may  be  stated  more  broadly  stilL 
I have  confined  the  illustration  of  it  to  architecture,  but  I 
must  not  leave  it  as  if  true  of  architecture  only.  Hitherto  I 
have  used  the  words  imperfect  and  perfect  merely  to  dis- 
tinguish between  work  grossly  unskilful,  and  work  executed 
with  average  precision  and  science  ; and  I have  been  pleading 
that  any  degree  of  unskilfulness  should  be  admitted,  so  only 
that  the  laborer’s  mind  had  room  for  expression.  But,  accu- 
rately speaking,  no  good  work  whatever  can  be  perfect,  and 
the  demand  for  perfection  is  always  a sign  of  a misunderstanding 
of  the  ends  of  art. 

§ xxiv.  This  for  two  reasons,  both  based  on  everlasting 
laws.  The  first,  that  no  great  man  ever  stops  working  till  he 
has  reached  his  point  of  failure  ; that  is  to  say,  his  mind  is 
always  far  in  advance  of  his  powers  of  execution,  and  the 
latter  will  now  and  then  give  way  in  trying  to  follow  it  ; be- 
sides that  he  will  always  give  to  the  inferior  portions  of  his 
work  only  such  inferior  attention  as  they  require  ; and  accord- 
ing to  his  greatness  he  becomes  so  accustomed  to  the  feeling 
of  dissatisfaction  with  the  best  he  can  do,  that  in  moments  of 
lassitude  or  anger  with  himself  he  will  not  care  though  the 
beholder  be  dissatisfied  also.  I believe  there  has  only  been 
one  man  who  would  not  acknowledge  this  necessity,  and  strove 
always  to  reach  perfection,  Leonardo  ; the  end  of  his  vain 
effort  being  merely  that  he  would  take  ten  years  to  a picture, 
and  leave  it  unfinished.  And  therefore,  if  we  are  to  have 
great  men  working  at  all,  or  less  men  doing  their  best,  the 
work  will  be  imperfect,  however  beautiful.  Of  human  work 
none  but  wThat  is  bad  can  be  perfect,  in  its  owTn  bad  way.* 

* The  Elgin  marbles  are  supposed  by  many  persons  to  be  “ perfect.” 
In  the  most  important  portions  they  indeed  approach  perfection,  but 
only  there.  The  draperies  are  unfinished,  the  hair  and  wool  of  the 
animals  are  unfinished,  and  the  entire  bas-reliefs  of  the  frieze  are 
roughly  cut. 


172 


THE  STOKES  OF  VENICE. 


§ xxv.  The  second  reason  is,  that  imperfection  is  in  some 
sort  essential  to  all  that  we  know  of  life.  It  is  the  sign  of  life 
in  a mortal  body,  that  is  to  say,  of  a state  of  progress  and 
change.  Nothing  that  lives  is,  or  can  be,  rigidly  perfect ; 
part  of  it  is  decaying,  part  nascent.  The  foxglove  blossom, — - 
a third  part  bud,  a third  part  past,  a third  part  in  full  bloomy 
— is  a type  of  the  life  of  this  world.  And  in  all  things  that 
live  there  are  certain  irregularities  and  deficiencies  which  are 
not  only  signs  of  life,  but  sources  of  beauty.  No  human  face 
is  exactly  the  same  in  its  lines  on  each  side,  no  leaf  perfect  in 
its  lobes,  no  branch  in  its  symmetry.  All  admit  irregularity 
as  they  imply  change  ; and  to  banish  imperfection  is  to  de- 
stroy expression,  to  check  exertion,  to  paralyse  vitality.  All 
things  are  literally  better,  lovelier,  and  more  beloved  for  the 
imperfections  which  have  been  divinely  appointed,  that  the 
law  of  human  life  may  be  Effort,  and  the  law  of  human  judg- 
ment, Mercy. 

Accept  this  then  for  a universal  law,  that  neither  architect- 
ure nor  any  other  noble  work  of  man  can  be  good  unless  it 
be  imperfect ; and  let  us  be  prepared  for  the  otherwise  strange 
fact,  which  we  shall  discern  clearly  as  wTe  approach  the  period 
of  the  Renaissance,  that  the  first  cause  of  the  fall  of  the  arts 
of  Europe  was  a relentless  requirement  of  perfection,  inca- 
pable alike  either  of  being  silenced  by  veneration  for  great- 
ness, or  softened  into  forgiveness  of  simplicity. 

Thus  far  then  of  the  Rudeness  or  Savageness,  which  is  the 
first  mental  element  of  Gothic  architecture.  It  is  an  element 
in  many  other  healthy  architectures  also,  as  in  Byzantine  and 
Romanesque  ; but  true  Gothic  cannot  exist  without  it. 

§ xxvi.  The  second  mental  element  above  named  was 
Changefulness,  or  Variety. 

I have  already  enforced  the  allowing  independent  operation 
to  the  inferior  workman,  simply  as  a duty  to  him , and  as  en- 
nobling the  architecture  by  rendering  it  more  Christian.  We 
have  now  to  consider  what  reward  we  obtain  for  the  perform* 
ance  of  this  duty,  namely,  the  perpetual  variety  of  every 
feature  of  the  building. 

Wherever  the  workman  is  utterly  enslaved,  the  parts  of  the 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


173 


building  must  of  course  be  absolutely  like  each  other  ; for  the 
perfection  of  his  execution  can  only  be  reached  by  exercising 
him  in  doing  one  thing,  and  giving  him  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  degree  in  which  the  workman  is  degraded  may  be  thus 
known  at  a glance,  by  observing  whether  the  several  parts  of 
the  building  are  similar  or  not ; and  if,  as  in  Greek  work,  all 
the  capitals  are  alike,  and  all  the  mouldings  unvaried,  then  the 
degradation  is  complete  ; if,  as  in  Egyptian  or  Ninevite  work, 
though  the  manner  of  executing  certain  figures  is  always  the 
same,  the  order  of  design  is  perpetually  varied,  the  degradation 
is  less  total ; if,  as  in  Gothic  work,  there  is  perpetual  change 
both  in  design  and  execution,  the  workman  must  have  been 
altogether  set  free. 

§ xxvii.  How  much  the  beholder  gains  from  the  liberty  of 
the  laborer  may  perhaps  be  questioned  in  England,  where  one 
of  the  strongest  instincts  in  nearly  every  mind  is  that  Love  of 
Order  which  makes  us  desire  that  our  house  windows  should 
pair  like  our  carriage  horses,  and  allows  us  to  yield  our  faith 
unhesitatingly  to  architectural  theories  which  fix  a form  for 
everything  and  forbid  variation  from  it.  I would  not  impeach 
love  of  order  : it  is  one  of  the  most  useful  elements  of  the 
English  mind  ; it  helps  us  in  our  commerce  and  in  all  purely 
practical  matters  ; and  it  is  in  many  cases  one  of  the  founda- 
tion stones  of  morality.  Only  do  not  let  us  suppose  that  love 
of  order  is  love  of  art.  It  is  true  that  order,  in  its  highest 
sense,  is  one  of  the  necessities  of  art,  just  as  time  is  a necessity 
of  music  ; but  love  of  order  has  no  more  to  do  with  our  right 
enjoyment  of  architecture  or  painting,  than  love  of  punctuality 
with  the  appreciation  of  an  opera.  Experience,  I fear,  teaches 
us  that  accurate  and  methodical  habits  in  daily  life  are  seldom 
characteristic  of  those  who  either  quickly  perceive,  or  richly 
possess,  the  creative  powers  of  art  ; there  is,  however,  nothing 
inconsistent  between  the  two  instincts,  and  nothing  to  hinder 
us  from  retaining  our  business  habits,  and  yet  fully  allowing 
and  enjoying  the  noblest  gifts  of  Invention.  We  already  do 
so,  in  every  other  branch  of  art  except  architecture,  and  we 
only  do  not  so  there  because  we  have  been  taught  that  it  would 
be  wrong.  Our  architects  gravely  inform  us  that,  as  there  are 


174 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


four  rules  of  arithmetic,  there  are  five  orders  of  architecture f 
we,  in  our  simplicity,  think  that  this  sounds  consistent,  and 
believe  them.  They  inform  us  also  that  there  is  one  proper 
form  for  Corinthian  capitals,  another  for  Doric,  and  another 
for  Ionic.  We,  considering  that  there  is  also  a proper  form 
for  the  letters  A,  B,  and  C,  think  that  this  also  sounds  con- 
sistent, and  accept  the  proposition.  Understanding,  there- 
fore, that  one  form  of  the  said  capitals  is  proper,  and  no  other, 
and  having  a conscientious  horror  of  all  impropriety,  we  allow 
the  architect  to  provide  us  with  the  said  capitals,  of  the 
proper  form,  in  such  and  such  a quantity,  and  in  all  other 
points  to  take  care  that  the  legal  forms  are  observed  ; which 
having  done,  we  rest  in  forced  confidence  that  we  are  well 
housed. 

§ xxvin.  But  our  higher  instincts  are  not  deceived.  We 
take  no  pleasure  in  the  building  provided  for  us,  resembling 
that  which  we  take  in  a new  book  or  a new  picture.  "We  may 
be  proud  of  its  size,  complacent  in  its  correctness,  and  happy 
in  its  convenience.  We  may  take  the  same  pleasure  in  its 
symmetry  and  workmanship  as  in  a well-ordered  room,  or  a 
skilful  piece  of  manufacture.  And  this  we  suppose  to  be  all 
the  pleasure  that  architecture  was  ever  intended  to  give  us. 
The  idea  of  reading  a building  as  we  would  read  Milton  or 
Dante,  and  getting  the  same  kind  of  delight  out  of  the  stones 
as  out  of  the  stanzas,  never  enters  our  minds  for  a moment. 
And  for  good  reason  : — ^There  is  indeed  rhythm  in  the  verses, 
quite  as  strict  as  the  symmetries  or  rhythm  of  the  architect- 
ure, and  a thousand  times  more  beautiful,  but  there  is  some- 
thing else  than  rhythm.  The  verses  were  neither  made  to 
order,  nor  to  match,  as  the  capitals  were  ; and  w^e  have  there- 
fore a kind  of  pleasure  in  them  other  than  a sense  of  pro- 
priety. But  it  requires  a strong  effort  of  common  sense  to 
shake  ourselves  quit  of  all  that  we  have  been  taught  for  the 
last  two  centuries,  and  wake  to  the  perception  of  a truth  just 
as  simple  and  certain  as  it  is  new  : that  great  art,  whether 
expressing  itself  in  words,  colors,  or  stones,  does  not  say  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again  ; that  the  merit  of  architect- 
ural, as  of  every  other  art,  consists  in  its  saying  new  and 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC 1 


175 


different  things ; that  to  repeat  itself  is  no  more  a character- 
istic of  genius  in  marble  than  it  is  of  genius  in  print ; and 
that  we  may,  without  offending  any  laws  of  good  taste,  re- 
quire of  an  architect,  as  we  do  of  a novelist,  that  he  should 
be  not  only  correct,  but  entertaining. 

Yet  all  this  is  true,  and  self-evident ; only  hidden  from  us, 
as  many  other  self-evident  things  are,  by  false  teaching. 
Nothing  is  a great  work  of  art,  for  the  production  of  which 
either  rules  or  models  can  be  given.  Exactly  so  far  as  archi- 
tecture works  on  known  rules,  and  from  given  models,  it  is 
not  an  art,  but  a manufacture  ; and  it  is,  of  the  two  pro- 
cedures, rather  less  rational  (because  more  easy)  to  copy 
capitals  or  mouldings  from  Phidias,  and  call  ourselves  archi- 
tects, than  to  copy  heads  and  hands  from  Titian,  and  call  our- 
selves painters. 

§ xxix.  Let  us  then  understand  at  once,  that  change  or 
variety  is  as  much  a necessity  to  the  human  heart  and  brain 
in  buildings  as  in  books  ; that  there  is  no  merit,  though  there 
is  some  occasional  use,  in  monotony  ; and  that  we  must  no 
more  expect  to  derive  either  pleasure  or  profit  from  an  archi- 
tecture whose  ornaments  are  of  one  pattern,  and  whose  pillars 
are  of  -o^e  proportion,  than  we  should  out  of  a universe  in  which 
the  clouds-were  all  of  one  shape,  and  the  trees  all  of  one  size. 

§ xxx.  Ana  /this  we  confess  in  deeds,  though  not  in  words. 
All  the  pleasurb  which  the  people  of  the  nineteenth  century 
take  in  art,  is  in  pictures,  sculpture,  minor  objects  of  virtft,  or 
mediaeval  architecture,  which  we  enjoy  under  the  term  pictu- 
resque : no  pleasure  is  taken  anywhere  in  modern  buildings, 
and  we  find  all  men  of  true  feeling  delighting  to  escape  out  of 
modem  cities  into  natural  scenery  : hence,  as  I shall  hereafter 
show,  that  peculiar  love  of  landscape  which  is  characteristic  of 
the  age.  It  would  be  well,  if,  in  all  other  matters,  we  were  as 
ready  to  put  up  with  what  we  dislike,  for  the  sake  of  compli- 
ance with  established  law,  as  we  are  in  architecture. 

§ xxxi.  How  so  debased  a law  ever  came  to  be  established, 
we  shall  see  when  we  come  to  describe  the  Kenaissance 
schools  : here  we  have  only  to  note,  as  the  second  most  essen- 
tial element  of  the  Gothic  spirit,  that  it  broke  through  that 


176 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


law  wherever  it  found  it  in  existence  ; it  not  only  dared,  but 
delighted  in,  the  infringement  of  every  servile  principle  ; and 
invented  a series  of  forms  of  which  the  merit  was,  not  merely 
that  they  were  new,  but  that  they  were  capable  of  perpetual 
novelty.  The  pointed  arch  was  not  merely  a bold  variation 
from  the  round,  but  it  admitted  of  millions  of  variations  in 
itself  ; for  the  proportions  of  a pointed  arch  are  changeable 
to  infinity,  while  a circular  arch  is  always  the  same.  The 
grouped  shaft  was  not  merely  a bold  variation  from  the  single 
one,  but  it  admitted  of  millions  of  variations  in  its  grouping, 
and  in  the  proportions  resultant  from  its  grouping.  The  in- 
troduction of  tracery  was  not  only  a startling  change  in  the 
treatment  of  window  lights,  but  admitted  endless  changes  in 
the  interlacement  of  the  tracery  bars  themselves.  So  that, 
while  in  all  living  Christian  architecture  the  love  of  variety 
exists,  the  Gothic  schools  exhibited  that  love  in  culminating 
energy ; and  their  influence,  wherever  it  extended  itself,  may 
be  sooner  and  farther  traced  by  this  character  than  by  any 
other  ; the  tendency  to  the  adoption  of  Gothic  types  being 
always  first  shown  by  greater  irregularity  and  richer  variation 
in  the  forms  of  the  architecture  it  is  about  to  supersede,  long 
before  the  appearance  of  the  pointed  arch  or  of  any  other 
recognizable  outward  sign  of  the  Gothic  mind.  y 

§ xxxii.  We  must,  however,  herein  note  caref  ully  what  dis- 
tinction there  is  between  a healthy  and  a 'diseased  love  of 
change ; for  as  it  was  in  healthy  love  ot  change  that  the 
Gothic  architecture  rose,  it  was  partly  in  consequence  of  dis- 
eased love  of  change  that  it  was  destroyed.  In  order  to  un- 
derstand this  clearly,  it  will  be  necessary  to  consider  the 
different  ways  in  which  change  and  monotony  are  presented 
to  us  in  nature  ; both  having  their  use,  like  darkness  and 
light,  and  the  one  incapable  of  being  enjoyed  without  the 
other : change  being  most  delightful  after  some  prolongation 
of  monotony,  as  light  appears  most  brilliant  after  the  eyes 
have  been  for  some  time  closed. 

§ xxxiii.  I believe  that  the  true  relations  of  monotony  and 
change  may  be  most  simply  understood  by  observing  them  in 
music.  We  may  therein  notice,  first,  that  there  is  a sublimity 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


177 


and  majesty  in  monotony  which  there  is  not  in  rapid  or  fre- 
quent variation.  This  is  true  throughout  ail  nature.  The 
greater  part  of  the  sublimity  of  the  sea  depends  on  its  monot- 
ony ; so  also  that  of  desolate  moor  and  mountain  scenery  ; ana 
especially  the  sublimity  of  motion,  as  in  the  quiet,  unchanged 
fall  and  rise  of  an  engine  beam.  So  also  there  is  sublimity  in 
darkness  which  there  is  not  in  light. 

§ xxxiv.  Again,  monotony  after  a certain  time,  or  beyond  a 
certain  degree,  becomes  either  uninteresting  or  intolerable, 
and  the  musician  is  obliged  to  break  it  in  one  or  two  ways  : 
either  while  the  air  or  passage  is  perpetually  repeated,  its 
notes  are  variously  enriched  and  harmonized  ; or  else,  after  a 
certain  number  of  repeated  passages,  an  entirely  new  passage 
is  introduced,  which  is  more  or  less  delightful  according  to 
the  length  of  the  previous  monotony.  Nature,  of  course,  uses 
both  these  kinds  of  variation  perpetually.  The  sea-waves, 
resembling  each  other  in  general  mass,  but  none  like  its 
brother  in  minor  divisions  and  curves,  are  a monotony  of  the 
first  kind  ; the  great  plain,  broken  by  an  emergent  rock  or 
clump  of  trees,  is  a monotony  of  the  second. 

§ xxxv.  Farther  : in  order  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  change 
in  either  case,  a certain  degree  of  patience  is  required  from 
the  hearer  or  observer.  In  the  first  case,  he  must  be  satisfied 
to  endure  with  patience  the  recurrence  of  the  great  masses  of 
sound  or  form,  and  to  seek  for  entertainment  in  a careful 
watchfulness  of  the  minor  details.  In  the  second  case,  he 
must  bear  patiently  the  infliction  of  the  monotony  for  some 
moments,  in  order  to  feel  the  full  refreshment  of  the  change. 
This  is  true  even  of  the  shortest  musical  passage  in  w7hich  the 
element  of  monotony  is  employed.  In  cases  of  more  majestic 
monotony,  the  patience  required  is  so  considerable  that  it  be- 
comes a kind  of  pain, — a price  paid  for  the  future  pleasure. 

§ xxxyi.  Again  : the  talent  of  the  composer  is  not  in  the 
monotony,  but  in  the  changes  : he  may  show  feeling  and  taste 
by  his  use  of  monotony  in  certain  places  or  degrees  ; that  is  to 
say,  by  his  various  employment  of  it ; but  it  is  ahvays  in  the 
new  arrangement  or  invention  that  his  intellect  is  shown,  and 
not  in  the  monotony  which  relieves  it. 

Vol.  11—13 


178 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


Lastly  : if  the  pleasure  of  change  be  too  often  repeated,  it 
ceases  to  be  delightful,  for  then  change  itself  becomes  monot- 
onous, and  we  are  driven  to  seek  delight  in  extreme  and  fan- 
tastic degrees  of  it.  This  is  the  diseased  love  of  change  of 
which  wre  have  above  spoken. 

§ xxxvii.  From  these  facts  we  may  gather  generally  that 
monotony  is,  and  ought  to  be,  in  itself  painful  to  us,  just  as 
darkness  is  ; that  an  architecture  which  is  altogether  monoto- 
nous is  a dark  or  dead  architecture  ; and,  of  those  who  love  it, 
it  may  be  truly  said,  “ they  love  darkness  rather  than  light.” 
But  monotony  in  certain  measure,  used  in  order  to  give  value 
to  change,  and,  above  all,  that  transparent  monotony  which, 
like  the  shadows  of  a great  painter,  suffers  all  manner  of  dimly 
suggested  form  to  be  seen  through  the  body  of  it,  is  an  essen- 
tial in  architectural  as  in  all  other  composition  ; and  the  en- 
durance of  monotony  has  about  the  same  place  in  a healthy 
mind  that  the  endurance  of  darkness  has : that  is  to  say,  as  a 
strong  intellect  will  have  pleasure  in  the  solemnities  of  storm 
and  twilight,  and  in  the  broken  and  mysterious  lights  that 
gleam  among  them,  rather  than  in  mere  brilliancy  and  glare, 
wdiile  a frivolous  mind  will  dread  the  shadow  and  the  storm  ; 
and  as  a great  man  will  be  ready  to  endure  much  darkness  of 
fortune  in  order  to  reach  greater  eminence  of  power  or  felicity, 
wdiile  an  inferior  man  will  not  pay  the  price  ; exactly  in  like 
manner  a great  mind  will  accept,  or  even  delight  in,  monotony 
which  would  be  wearisome  to  an  inferior  intellect,  because  it 
has  more  patience  and  power  of  expectation,  and  is  ready  to 
pay  the  full  price  for  the  great  future  pleasure  of  change.  But 
in  all  cases  it  is  not  that  the  noble  nature  loves  monotony, 
any  more  than  it  loves  darkness  or  pain.  But  it  can  bear  with 
it,  and  receives  a high  pleasure  in  the  endurance  or  patience, 
a pleasure  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  this  world  ; while 
those  who  will  not  submit  to  the  temporary  sameness,  but 
rush  from  one  change  to  another,  gradually  dull  the  edge  of 
change  itself,  and  bring  a shadow  and  weariness  over  the 
whole  world  from  which  there  is  no  more  escape. 

§ xxxviii.  From  these  general  uses  of  variety  in  the  econ- 
omy of  the  world,  we  may  at  once  understand  its  use  and 


T1IE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


179 


abuse  in  architecture.  The  variety  of  the  Gothic  schools  is 
the  more  healthy  and  beautiful,  because  in  many  cases  it  is 
entirely  unstudied,  and  results,  not  from  the  mere  love  of 
change,  but  from  practical  necessities.  For  in  one  point  of 
view  Gothic  is  not  only  the  best,  but  the  only  rational  archi- 
tecture, as  being  that  which  can  fit  itself  most  easily  to  all  ser- 
vices, vulgar  or  noble.  Undefined  in  its  slope  of  roof,  height 
of  shaft,  breadth  of  arch,  or  disposition  of  ground  plan,  it  can 
shrink  into  a turret,  expand  into  a hall,  coil  into  a staircase,  or 
spring  into  a spire,  with  undegraded  grace  and  unexhausted 
energy  ; and  whenever  it  finds  occasion  for  change  in  its  form 
or  purpose,  it  submits  to  it  without  the  slightest  sense  of  loss 
either  to  its  unity  or  majesty, — subtle  and  flexible  like  a fiery 
serpent,  but  ever  attentive  to  the  voice  of  the  charmer.  And 
it  is  one  of  the  chief  virtues  of  the  Gothic  builders,  that  they 
never  suffered  ideas  of  outside  symmetries  and  consistencies 
to  interfere  with  the  real  use  and  value  of  what  they  did.  If 
they  wanted  a window,  they  opened  one  ; a room,  they  added 
one  ; a buttress,  they  built  one  ; utterly  regardless  of  any  es- 
tablished conventionalities  of  external  appearance,  knowing  (as 
indeed  it  always  happened)  that  such  daring  interruptions  of 
the  formal  plan  would  rather  give  additional  interest  to  its 
symmetry  than  injure  it.  So  that,  in  the  best  times  of  Gothic, 
a useless  window  would  rather  have  been  opened  in  an  unex- 
pected place  for  the  sake  of  the  surprise,  than  a useful  one 
forbidden  for  the  sake  of  symmetry.  Every  successive  archi- 
tect, employed  upon  a great  wTork,  built  the  pieces  he  added 
in  his  own  way,  utterly  regardless  of  the  style  adopted  by  his 
predecessors  ; and  if  two  towers  wrere  raised  in  nominal  cor- 
respondence at  the  sides  of  a cathedral  front,  one  was  nearly 
sure  to  be  different  from  the  other,  and  in  each  the  style  at 
the  top  to  be  different  from  the  style  at  the  bottom.* 

§ xxxix.  These  marked  variations  were,  however,  only  per- 
mitted as  part  of  the  great  system  of  perpetual  change  which 
ran  through  every  member  of  Gothic  design,  and  rendered  it 

* In  tlie  eighth  chapter  we  shall  see  a remarkable  instance  of  this 
sacrifice  of  symmetry  to  convenience  in  the  arrangement  of  the  windows 
of  the  Ducal  Palace. 


180 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


as  endless  a field  for  the  beholder’s  inquiry,  as  for  the  builder’s 
imagination  : change,  which  in  the  best  schools  is  subtle  and 
delicate,  and  rendered  more  delightful  by  intermingling  of  a 
noble  monotony  ; in  the  more  barbaric  schools  is  somewhat 
fantastic  and  redundant  ; but,  in  all,  a necessary  and  constant 
condition  of  the  life  of  the  school.  Sometimes  the  variety  is 
in  one  feature,  sometimes  in  another  ; it  maybe  in  the  capitals 
or  crockets,  in  the  niches  or  the  traceries,  or  in  all  together, 
but  in  some  one  or  other  of  the  features  it  will  be  found 
always.  If  the  mouldings  are  constant,  the  surface  sculpture 
will  change  ; if  the  capitals  are  of  a fixed  design,  the  traceries 
will  change  ; if  the  traceries  are  monotonous,  the  capitals  will 
change  ; and  if  even,  as  in  some  fine  schools,  the  early  English 
for  example,  there  is  the  slightest  approximation  to  an  unvary- 
ing type  of  mouldings,  capitals,  and  floral  decoration,  the 
variety  is  found  in  the  disposition  of  the  masses,  and  in  the 
figure  sculpture. 

§ xl.  I must  now  refer  for  a moment,  before  we  quit  the 
consideration  of  this,  the  second  mental  element  of  Gothic,  to 
the  opening  of  the  third  chapter  of  the  “Seven  Lamps  of  Ar- 
chitecture,” in  which  the  distinction  was  drawn  (§  2)  between 
man  gathering  and  man  governing ; between  his  acceptance 
of  the  sources  of  delight  from  nature,  and  his  developement  of 
authoritative  or  imaginative  power  in  their  arrangement : for 
the  two  mental  elements,  not  only  of  Gothic,  but  of  all  good 
architecture,  which  we  have  just  been  examining,  belong  to  it, 
and  are  admirable  in  it,  chiefly  as  it  is,  more  than  any  other 
subject  of  art,  the  work  of  man,  and  the  expression  of  the 
average  powTer  of  man.  A picture  or  poem  is  often  little  more 
than  a feeble  utterance  of  man’s  admiration  of  something  out 
of  himself  ; but  architecture  approaches  more  to  a creation  of 
his  own,  born  of  his  necessities,  and  expressive  of  his  nature. 
It  is  also,  in  some  sort,  the  work  of  the  whole  race,  while  the 
picture  or  statue  are  the  work  of  one  only,  in  most  cases  more 
highly  gifted  than  his  fellows*.  And  therefore  we  may  expect 
that  the  first  two  elements  of  good  architecture  should  be  ex- 
pressive of  some  great  truths  commonly  belonging  to  the  whole 
race,  and  necessary  to  be  understood  or  felt  by  them  in  afi 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


1S1 


their  work  that  they  do  under  the  sun.  And  observe  what 
they  are  : the  confession  of  Imperfection  and  the  confession  of 
Desire  of  Change.  The  building  of  the  bird  and  the  bee  needs 
not  express  anything  like  this.  It  is  perfect  and  unchanging. 
But  just  because  we  are  something  better  than  birds  or  bees, 
our  building  must  confess  that  we  have  not  reached  the  perfec- 
tion we  can  imagine,  and  cannot  rest  in  the  condition  we  have 
attained.  If  we  pretend  to  have  reached  either  perfection  or 
satisfaction,  we  have  degraded  ourselves  and  our  work.  God’s 
work  only  may  express  that  ; but  ours  may  never  have  that 
sentence  written  upon  it, — “And  behold,  it  was  very  good.” 
And,  observe  again,  it  is  not  merely  as  it  renders  the  edifice  a 
book  of  various  knowledge,  or  a mine  of  precious  thought,  that 
variety  is  essential  to  its  nobleness.  The  vital  principle  is  not 
the  love  of  Knowledge,  but  the  love  of  Change . It  is  that 
strange  disquietude  of  the  Gothic  spirit  that  is  its  greatness  ; 
that  restlessness  of  the  dreaming  mind,  that  wanders  hither 
and  thither  among  the  niches,  and  flickers  feverishly  around 
the  pinnacles,  and  frets  and  fades  in  labyrinthine  knots  and 
shadows  along  wall  and  roof,  and  yet  is  not  satisfied,  nor  shall 
be  satisfied.  The  Greek  could  stay  in  his  triglypli  furrow,  and 
be  at  peace  ; but  the  work  of  the  Gothic  heart  is  fretwork  still, 
and  it  can  neither  rest  in,  nor  from,  its  labor,  but  must  pass  on, 
sleeplessly,  until  its  love  of  change  shall  be  pacified  for  ever  in 
the  change  that  must  come  alike  on  them  that  wake  and  them 
that  sleep. 

§ xli.  The  third  constituent  element  of  the  Gothic  mind 
was  stated  to  be  Naturalism  ; that  is  to  say,  the  love  of  natu- 
ral objects  for  their  own  sake,  and  the  effort  to  represent  them 
frankly,  unconstrained  by  artistical  laws. 

This  characteristic  of  the  style  partly  follows  in  necessary 
connexion  with  those  named  above.  For,  so  soon  as  the 
workman  is  left  free  to  represent  what  subjects  he  chooses, 
he  must  look  to  the  nature  that  is  round  him  for  material, 
and  will  endeavor  to  represent  it  as  he  sees  it,  with  more  or 
less  accuracy  according  to  the  skill  he  possesses,  and  with 
much  play  of  fancy,  but  with  small  respect  for  law.  There  is, 
however,  a marked  distinction  between  the  imaginations  of 


182 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


the  Western  and  Eastern  races,  even  when  both  are  left  free; 
the  Western,  or  Gothic,  delighting  most  in  the  representation 
of  facts,  and  the  Eastern  (Arabian,  Persian,  and  Chinese)  in 
the  harmony  of  colors  and  forms.  Each  of  these  intellectual 
dispositions  has  its  particular  forms  of  error  and  abuse,  which, 
though  I have  often  before  stated,  I must  here  again  briefly 
explain  ; and  this  the  rather,  because  the  word  Naturalism  is, 
in  one  of  its  senses,  justly  used  as  a term  of  reproach,  and  the 
questions  respecting  the  real  relations  of  art  and  nature  are 
so  many  and  so  confused  throughout  all  the  schools  of  Europe 
at  this  day,  that  I cannot  clearly  enunciate  any  single  truth 
without  appearing  to  admit,  in  fellowship  with  it,  some  kind 
of  error,  unless  the  reader  will  bear  with  me  in  entering  into 
such  an  analysis  of  the  subject  as  will  serve  us  for  general 
guidance. 

§ xlii.  We  are  to  remember,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  ar- 
rangement of  colors  and  lines  is  an  art  analogous  to  the  com- 
position * of  music,  and  entirely  independent  of  the  represen- 
tation of  facts.  Good  coloring  does  not  necessarily  convey 
the  image  of  anything  but  itself.  It  consists  in  certain  pro- 
portions and  arrangements  of  rays  of  light,  but  not  in  like- 
nesses to  anything.  A few  touches  of  certain  greys  and 
purples  laid  by  a master’s  hand  on  white  paper,  will  be  good 
coloring ; as  more  touches  are  added  beside  them,  we  may 
find  out  that  they  were  intended  to  represent  a dove’s  neck, 
and  wTe  may  praise,  as  the  drawing  advances,  the  perfect  imi- 

* I am  always  afraid  to  use  this  word  “ Composition  ; ” it  is  so  utterly 
misused  in  the  general  parlance  respecting  art.  Nothing  is  more  com- 
mon than  to  hear  divisions  of  art  into  “form,  composition,  and  color, ” 
or  “ light  and  shade  and  composition/’  or  “ sentiment  and  composition,” 
or  it  matters  not  what  else  and  composition  ; the  speakers  in  each  case 
attaching  a perfectly  different  meaning  to  the  word,  generally  an  indis- 
tinct one,  and  always  a wrong  one.  Composition  is,  in  plain  English, 
“ putting  together,”  and  it  means  the  putting  together  of  lines,  of  forms, 
of  colors,  of  shades,  or  of  ideas.  Painters  compose  in  color,  compose  in 
thought,  compose  in  form,  and  compose  in  effect  : the  word  being  of 
use  merely  in  order  to  express  a scientific,  disciplined,  and  inventive 
arrangement  of  any  of  these,  instead  of  a merely  natural  or  accidental 
one. 


TEE  NATURE  OF  GOTIUG. 


183 


iation  of  the  clove’s  neck.  But  the  good  coloring  does  not 
consist  in  that  imitation,  but  in  the  abstract  qualities  and  re- 
lations of  the  grey  and  purple. 

In  like  manner,  as  soon  as  a great  sculptor  begins  to  shape 
his  work  out  of  the  block,  we  shall  see  that  its  lines  are  nobly 
arranged,  and  of  noble  character.  We  may  not  have  the 
slightest  idea  for  what  the  forms  are  intended,  whether  they 
are  of  man  or  beast,  of  vegetation  or  drapery.  Their  likeness 
to  anything  does  not  affect  their  nobleness.  They  are  mag- 
nificent forms,  and  that  is  all  we  need  care  to  know  of  them, 
in  order  to  say  whether  the  workman  is  a good  or  bad  sculp- 
tor. 

§ xlui.  Now  the  noblest  art  is  an  exact  unison  of  the  ab- 
stract value,  with  the  imitative  power,  of  forms  and  colors. 
It  is  the  noblest  composition,  used  to  express  the  noblest  facts. 
But  the  human  mind  cannot  in  general  unite  the  twTo  perfec- 
tions : it  either  pursues  the  fact  to  the  neglect  of  the  compo- 
sition, or  pursues  the  composition  to  the  neglect  of  the  fact. 

§ xliv.  And  it  is  intended  by  the  Deity  that  it  should  do 
this  ; the  best  art  is  not  always  wanted.  Facts  are  often 
wanted  without  art,  as  in  a geological  diagram  ; and  art  often 
without  facts,  as  in  a Turkey  carpet.  And  most  men  have 
been  made  capable  of  giving  either  one  or  the  other,  but  not 
both  ; only  one  or  two,  the  very  highest,  can  give  both. 

Observe  then.  Men  are  universally  divided,  as  respects 
their  artistical  qualifications,  into  three  great  classes  ; a right, 
a left,  and  a centre.  On  the  right  side  are  the  men  of  facts, 
on  the  left  the  men  of  design,*  in  the  centre  the  men  of  both. 

The  three  classes  of  course  pass  into  each  other  by  imper- 
ceptible gradations.  The  men  of  facts  are  hardly  ever  alto- 
gether without  powers  of  design  ; the  men  of  design  are  al- 
ways in  some  measure  cognizant  of  facts ; and  as  each  class 
possesses  more  or  less  of  the  powers  of  the  opposite  one,  it 
approaches  to  the  character  of  the  central  class.  Few  men, 

* Design  is  used  in  this  place  as  expressive  of  the  power  to  arrange 
lines  and  colors  nobly.  By  facts,  I mean  facts  perceived  by  the  eye  and 
mind,  not  facts  accumulated  by  knowledge.  See  the  chapter  on  Romar 
Renaissance  (Yol.  III.  Chap.  II.)  for  this  distinction. 


184 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


even  in  that  central  rank,  are  so  exactly  throned  on  the  sum- 
mit  of  the  crest  that  they  cannot  be  perceived  to  incline  in  the 
least  one  way  or  the  other,  embracing  both  horizons  with  their 
glance.  Now  each  of  these  classes  has,  as  I above  said,  a 
healthy  function  in  the  world,  and  correlative  diseases  or  un- 
healthy functions ; and,  when  the  work  of  either  of  them  is 
seen  in  its  morbid  condition,  we  are  apt  to  find  fault  with  the 
class  of  workmen,  instead  of  finding  fault  only  with  the  par- 
ticular abuse  which  has  perverted  their  action. 

§ xlv.  Let  us  first  take  an  instance  of  the  healthy  action  of 
the  three  classes  on  a simple  subject,  so  as  fully  to  understand 
the  distinction  between  them,  and  then  we  shall  more  easily 
examine  the  corruptions  to  which  they  are  liable.  Fig.  1 in 
Plate  YI.  is  a spray  of  vine  with  a bough  of  cherry-tree,  which 
I have  outlined  from  nature  as  accurately  as  I could,  without 
in  the  least  endeavoring  to  compose  or  arrange  the  form.  It 
is  a simple  piece  of  fact-work,  healthy  and  good  as  such,  and 
useful  to  any  one  who  wanted  to  know  plain  truths  about  ten- 
drils of  vines,  but  there  is  no  attempt  at  design  in  it.  Plate 
XIX.,  below,  represents  a branch  of  vine  used  to  decorate  the 
angle  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  It  is  faithful  as  a representation 
of  vine,  and  yet  so  designed  that  every  leaf  serves  an  archi- 
tectural purpose,  and  could  not  be  spared  from  its  place  with- 
out harm.  This  is  central  work  ; fact  and  design  together. 
Fig.  2 in  Plate  VI.  is  a spandril  from  St.  Mark’s,  in  which  the 
forms  of  the  vine  are  dimly  suggested,  the  object  of  the  design 
being  merely  to  obtain  graceful  lines  and  well  proportioned 
masses  upon  the  gold  ground.  There  is  not  the  least  attempt 
to  inform  the  spectator  of  any  facts  about  the  growth  of  the 
vine  ; there  are  no  stalks  or  tendrils, — merely  running  bands 
with  leaves  emergent  from  them,  of  which  nothing  but  the 
outline  is  taken  from  the  vine,  and  even  that  imperfectly 
This  is  design,  unregardful  of  facts. 

Now  the  work  is,  in  all  these  three  cases,  perfectly  healthy. 
Fig.  1 is  not  bad  work  because  it  has  not  design,  nor  Fig.  2 
bad  work  because  it  has  not  facts.  The  object  of  the  one  is  to 
give  pleasure  through  truth,  and  of  the  other  to  give  pleasure 
through  composition.  And  both  are  right. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


185 


What,  then,  are  the  diseased  operations  to  which  the  three 
classes  of  workmen  are  liable  ? 

§ xl vi.  Primarily,  two  ; affecting  the  two  inferior  classes  : 

1st,  When  either  of  those  two  classes  Despises  the  other  ; 

2nd,  When  either  of  the  two  classes  Envies  the  other  ; pro- 
ducing, therefore,  four  forms  of  dangerous  error. 

First,  when  the  men  of  facts  despise  design.  This  is  the 
error  of  the  common  Dutch  painters,  of  merely  imitative 
painters  of  still  life,  flowers,  &e.,  and  other  men  who,  having 
either  the  gift  of  accurate  imitation  or  strong  sympathies  with 
nature,  suppose  that  all  is  done  when  the  imitation  is  perfected 
or  sympathy  expressed.  A large  body  of  English  landscapists 
come  into  this  class,  including  most  clever  sketchers  from  nat- 
ure, who  fancy  that  to  get  a sky  of  true  tone,  and  a gleam  of 
sunshine  or  sweep  of  shower  faithfully  expressed,  is  all  that 
can  be  required  of  art.  These  men  are  generally  themselves 
answerable  for  much  of  their  deadness  of  feeling  to  the  higher 
qualities  of  composition.  They  probably  have  not  originally 
the  high  gifts  of  design,  but  they  lose  such  powers  as  they 
originally  possessed  by  despising,  and  refusing  to  study,  the 
results  of  great  power  of  design  in  others.  Their  knowledge, 
as  far  as  it  goes,  being  accurate,  they  are  usually  presumptu- 
ous and  self-conceited,  and  gradually  become  incapable  of  ad- 
miring anything  but  what  is  like  their  own  works.  They  see 
nothing  in  the  works  of  great  designers  but  the  faults,  and  do 
harm  almost  incalculable  in  the  European  society  of  the  pres- 
ent day  by  sneering  at  the  compositions  of  the  greatest  men 
of  the  earlier  ages,*  because  they  do  not  absolutely  tally  with 
their  own  ideas  of  “ Nature.” 

§ xl vii.  The  second  form  of  error  is  when  the  men  of  design 
despise  facts.  All  noble  design  must  deal  with  facts  to  a cer- 
tain extent,  for  there  is  no  food  for  it  but  in  nature.  The  best 
colorist  invents  best  by  taking  hints  from  natural  colors  ; from 
birds,  skies,  or  groups  of  figures.  And  if,  in  the  delight  of 
inventing  fantastic  color  and  form  the  truths  of  nature  are 

* u Earlier,”  that  is  to  say,  pre-Raphaelite  ages.  Men  of  this  stamp 
will  praise  Claude,  and  such  other  comparatively  debased  artists  ; but 
they  cannot  taste  the  work  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


186 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


wilfully  neglected,  the  intellect  becomes  comparatively  de< 
crepit,  and  that  state  of  art  results  which  we  find  among  the 
Chinese.  The  Greek  designers  delighted  in  the  facts  of  the 
human  form,  and  became  great  in  consequence  ; but  the  facts 
of  lower  nature  were  disregarded  by  them,  and  their  inferior 
ornament  became,  therefore,  dead  and  valueless. 

§ xlviii.  The  third  form  of  error  is  when  the  men  of  facts 
envy  design  : that  is  to  say,  when,  having  only  imitative 
powers,  they  refuse  to  employ  those  powers  upon  the  visible 
world  around  them  ; but,  having  been  taught  that  composition 
is  the  end  of  art,  strive  to  obtain  the  inventive  powers  which 
nature  has  denied  them,  study  nothing  but  the  works  of  re- 
puted designers,  and  perish  in  a fungous  growth  of  plagiarism 
and  laws  of  art. 

Here  was  the  great  error  of  the  beginning  of  this  century  ; 
it  is  the  error  of  the  meanest  kind  of  men  that  employ  them- 
selves in  painting,  and  it  is  the  most  fatal  of  all,  rendering 
those  who  fall  into  it  utterly  useless,  incapable  of  helping  the 
world  with  either  truth  or  fancy,  while,  in  all  probability,  they 
deceive  it  by  base  resemblances  of  both,  until  it  hardly  recog- 
nizes truth  or  fancy  when  they  really  exist. 

§ xlix.  The  fourth  form  of  error  is  when  the  men  of  design 
envy  facts  ; that  is  to  say,  when  the  temptation  of  closely  imi- 
tating nature  leads  them  to  forget  their  own  proper  orna- 
mental function,  and  when  they  lose  the  power  of  the  compo- 
sition for  the  sake  of  graphic  truth  ; as,  for  instance,  in  the 
hawthorn  moulding  so  often  spoken  of  round  the  porch  of 
Bourges  Cathedral,  which,  though  very  lovely,  might  perhaps, 
as  we  saw  above,  have  been  better,  if  the  old  builder,  in  his 
excessive  desire  to  make  it  look  like  hawthorn,  had  not  painted 
it  green. 

§ l.  It  is,  however,  carefully  to  be  noted,  that  the  two  mor- 
bid conditions  to  which  the  men  of  facts  are  liable  are  much 
more  dangerous  and  harmful  than  those  to  which  the  men  of 
design  are  liable.  The  morbid  state  of  men  of  design  injures 
themselves  only  ; that  of  the  men  of  facts  injures  the  whole 
world.  The  Chinese  porcelain -painter  is,  indeed,  not  so  great 
a man  as  he  might  be,  but  he  does  not  want  to  break  every- 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


187 


thing  that  is  not  porcelain  ; but  the  modern  English  fact- 
hunter,  despising  design,  wants  to  destroy  everything  that 
does  not  agree  with  his  own  notions  of  truth,  and  becomes  the 
most  dangerous  and  despicable  of  iconoclasts,  excited  by  ego- 
tism instead  of  religion.  Again  : the  Bourges  sculptor,  paint- 
ing his  hawthorns  green,  did  indeed  somewhat  hurt  the  effect 
of  his  own  beautiful  design,  but  did  not  prevent  anyone  from 
loving  hawthorn : but  Sir  George  Beaumont,  trying  to  make 
Constable  paint  grass  brown  instead  of  green,  was  setting  him- 
self between  Constable  and  nature,  blinding  the  painter,  and 
blaspheming  the  work  of  God. 

§ li.  So  much,  then,  of  the  diseases  of  the  inferior  classes, 
caused  by  their  envying  or  despising  each  other.  It  is  evident 
that  the  men  of  the  central  class  cannot  be  liable  to  any  mor- 
bid operation  of  this  kind,  they  possessing  the  powers  of 
both. 

But  there  is  another  order  of  diseases  which  affect  all  the 
three  classes,  considered  with  respect  to  their  pursuit  of  facts. 
For  observe,  all  the  three  classes  are  in  some  degree  pursuers 
of  facts ; even  the  men  of  design  not  being  in  any  case  alto- 
gether independent  of  external  truth.  Now,  considering  them 
all  as  more  or  less  searchers  after  truth,  there  is  another  triple 
division  to  be  made  of  them.  Everything  presented  to  them 
in  nature  has  good  and  evil  mingled  in  it : and'  artists,  con- 
sidered as  searchers  after  truth,  are  again  to  be  divided  into 
three  great  classes,  a right,  a left,  and  a centre.  Those  on  the 
fight  perceive,  and  pursue,  the  good,  and  leave  the  evil : those 
fn  the  centre,  the  greatest,  perceive  and  pursue  the  good  and 
evil  together,  the  whole  thing  as  it  verily  is  : those  on  the  left 
perceive  and  pursue  the  evil,  and  leave  the  good. 

§ lii.  The  first  class,  I say,  take  the  good  and  leave  the 
evil.  Out  of  whatever  is  presented  to  them,  they  gather  what 
it  has  of  grace,  and  life,  and  light,  and  holiness,  and  leave  all, 
or  at  least  as  much  as  possible,  of  the  rest  undrawn.  The 
faces  of  their  figures  express  no  evil  passions  ; the  skies  of 
their  landscapes  are  without  storm  ; the  prevalent  character 
of  their  color  is  brightness,  and  of  their  chiaroscuro  fulness  of 
light.  The  early  Italian  and  Flemish  painters,  Angelico  and 


188 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Hembling,  Perugino,  Francia,  Raffaelle  in  liis  best  time,  John 
Bellini,  and  our  own  Stothard,  belong  eminently  to  this  class. 

§ liii.  The  second,  or  greatest  class,  render  all  that  they  see 
in  nature  unhesitatingly,  with  a kind  of  divine  grasp  and 
government  of  the  whole,  sympathizing  with  all  the  good,  and 
yet  confessing,  permitting,  and  bringing  good  out  of  the  evil 
also.  Their  subject  is  infinite  as  nature,  their  color  equally 
balanced  between  splendor  and  sadness,  reaching  occasionally 
the  highest  degrees  of  both, . and  their  chiaroscuro  equally 
balanced  between  light  and  shade. 

The  principal  men  of  this  class  are  Michael  Angelo,  Leon- 
ardo, Giotto,  Tintoret,  and  Turner.  Baffaelle  in  his  second 
time,  Titian,  and  Rubens  are  transitional  ; the  first  inclining 
to  the  eclectic,  and  the  last  two  to  the  impure  class,  Raffaelle 
rarely  giving  all  the  evil,  Titian  and  Rubens  rarely  all  the 
good. 

§ liv.  The  last  class  perceive  and  imitate  evil  only.  They 
cannot  draw  the  trunk  of  a tree  without  blasting  and  shatter- 
ing it,  nor  a sky  except  covered  with  stormy  clouds  : they  de- 
light in  the  beggary  and  brutality  of  the  human  race  ; their 
color  is  for  the  most  part  subdued  or  lurid,  and  the  greatest 
spaces  of  their  pictures  are  occupied  by  darkness. 

Happily  the  examples  of  this  class  are  seldom  seen  in  per- 
fection. Salvator  Rosa  and  Caravaggio  are  the  most  charac- 
teristic : the  other  men  belonging  to  it  approach  towards  the 
central  rank  by  imperceptible  gradations,  as  they  perceive  and 
represent  more  and  more  of  good.  But  Murillo,  Zurbaran, 
Camillo  Procaccini,  Rembrandt,  and  Teniers,  all  belong  nat- 
urally to  this  lower  class. 

§ lv.  Now,  observe  : the  three  classes  into  which  artists 
were  previously  divided,  of  men  of  fact,  men  of  design,  and 
men  of  both,  are  all  of  Divine  institution  ; but  of  these  latter 
three,  the  last  is  in  no  wise  of  Divine  institution.  It  is  entirely 
human,  and  the  men  who  belong  to  it  have  sunk  into  it  by 
their  own  faults.  They  are,  so  far  forth,  either  useless  or 
harmful  men.  It  is  indeed  good  that  evil  should  be  occasion- 
ally represented,  even  in  its  worst  forms,  but  never  that  it 
should  be  taken  delight  in  : and  the  mighty  men  of  the  central 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


189 


class  will  always  give  us  all  that  is  needful  of  it ; sometimes,  as 
Hogarth  did,  dwelling  upon  it  bitterly  as  satirists, — but  this 
with  the  more  effect,  because  they  will  neither  exaggerate  it,  nor 
represent  it  mercilessly,  and  without  the  atoning  points  that  all 
evil  shows  to  a Divinely  guided  glance,  even  at  its  deepest. 
So  then,  though  the  third  class  will  always,  I fear,  in  some 
measure  exist,  the  twTo  necessary  classes  are  only  the  first  two  ; 
and  this  is  so  far  acknowledged  by  the  general  sense  of  men, 
that  the  basest  class  has  been  confounded  with  the  second  ; and 
painters  have  been  divided  commonly  only  into  two  ranks,  now 
known,  I believe,  throughout  Europe  by  the  names  which  they 
first  received  in  Italy,  “ Puristiand  Naturalisti.”  Since,  how- 
ever, in  the  existing  state  of  things,  the  degraded  or  evil- 
loving  class,  though  less  defined  than  that  of  the  Puristi,  is 
just  as  vast  as  it  is  indistinct,  this  division  has  done  infinite 
dishonor  to  the  great  faithful  painters  of  nature  : and  it  has 
long  been  one  of  the  objects  I have  had  most  at  heart  to 
show  that,  in  reality,  the  Purists,  in  their  sanctity,  are  less 
separated  from  these  natural  painters  than  the  Sensualists  in 
their  foulness  ; and  that  the  difference,  though  less  discernible, 
is  in  reality  greater,  between  the  man  who  pursues  evil  for 
its  own  sake,  and  him  who  bears  with  it  for  the  sake  of  truth, 
than  between  this  latter  and  the  man  who  will  not  endure  it 
at  all. 

§ lvi.  Let  us,  then,  endeavor  briefly  to  mark  the  real  rela- 
tions of  these  three  vast  ranks  of  men,  whom  I shall  call,  for 
convenience  in  speaking  of  them,  Purists,  Naturalists,  and 
Sensualists  ; not  that  these  terms  express  their  real  characters, 
but  I know  no  word,  and  cannot  coin  a convenient  one,  which 
would  accurately  express  the  opposite  of  Purist ; and  I keep 
the  terms  Purist  and  Naturalist  in  order  to  comply,  as  far  as 
possible,  with  the  established  usage  of  language  on  the  Conti- 
nent. Now,  observe  : in  saying  that  nearly  everything  pre- 
sented to  us  in  nature  has  mingling  in  it  of  good  and  evil,  I 
do  not  mean  that  nature  is  conceivably  improvable,  or  that 
anything  that  God  has  made  could  be  called  evil,  if  we  could 
see  far  enough  into  its  uses,  but  that,  with  respect  to  immedi- 
ate effects  or  appearances,  it  may  be  so,  just  as  the  hard  rind 


190 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


or  bitter  kernel  of  a fruit  may  be  an  evil  to  the  eater,  though 
in  the  one  is  the  protection  of  the  fruit,  and  in  the  other  its 
continuance.  The  Purist,  therefore,  does  not  mend  nature, 
but  receives  from  nature  and  from  God  that  which  is  good 
for  him  ; while  the  Sensualist  fills  himself  “ with  the  husks 
that  the  swine  did  eat.” 

The  three  classes  may,  therefore,  be  likened  to  men  reaping 
wheat,  of  which  the  Purists  take  the  fine  flour,  and  the  Sen- 
sualists the  chaff  and  straw,  but  the  Naturalists  take  all  home, 
and  make  their  cake  of  the  one,  and  their  couch  of  the  other. 

§ lvii.  For  instance.  We  know  more  certainly  every  day 
that  whatever  appears  to  us  harmful  in  the  universe  has  some 
beneficent  or  necessary  operation ; that  the  storm  which  de- 
stroys a harvest  brightens  the  sunbeams  for  harvests  yet  un- 
sown, and  that  the  volcano  which  buries  a city  preserves  a 
thousand  from  destruction.  But  the  evil  is  not  for  the  time 
less  fearful,  because  we  have  learned  it  to  be  necessary  ; and 
we  easily  understand  the  timidity  or  the  tenderness  of  the 
spirit  which  would  withdraw  itself  from  the  presence  of  de- 
struction, and  create  in  its  imagination  a world  of  which  the 
peace  should  be  unbroken,  in  which  the  sky  should  not  dark- 
en nor  the  sea  rage,  in  which  the  leaf  should  not  change 
nor  the  blossom  wither.  That  man  is  greater,  however,  who 
contemplates  with  an  equal  mind  the  alternations  of  terror 
and  of  beauty  ; w7ho,  not  rejoicing  less  beneath  the  sunny 
sky,  can  bear  also  to  watch  the  bars  of  twilight  narrowing  on 
the  horizon  ; and,  not  less  sensible  to  the  blessing  of  the 
peace  of  nature,  can  rejoice  in  the  magnificence  of  the  ordi- 
nances by  which  that  peace  is  protected  and  secured.  But 
separated  from  both  by  an  immeasurable  distance  would  be 
the  man  who  delighted  in  convulsion  and  disease  for  their 
own  sake  ; who  found  his  daily  food  in  the  disorder  of  nature 
mingled  with  the  suffering  of  humanity  ; and  watched  joy- 
fully at  the  right  hand  of  the  Angel  whose  appointed  work  is 
to  destroy  as  well  as  to  accuse,  while  the  corners  of  the  House 
of  feasting  were  struck  by  the  wind  from  the  wilderness. 

§ lviii.  And  far  more  is  this  true,  when  the  subject  of  con- 
templation is  humanity  itself.  The  passions  of  mankind  are 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


191 


partly  protective,  partly  beneficent,  like  the  chaff  and  grain 
of  the  corn  ; but  none  without  their  use,  none  without  noble- 
ness when  seen  in  balanced  unity  with  the  rest  of  the  spirit 
which  they  are  charged  to  defend.  The  passions  of  which 
the  end  is  the  continuance  of  the  race  ; the  indignation  which 
is  to  arm  it  against  injustice,  or  strengthen  it  to  resist  wanton 
injury  ; and  the  fear  * which  lies  at  the  root  of  prudence,  rev- 
erence, and  awe,  are  all  honorable  and  beautiful,  so  long  as 
man  is  regarded  in  his  relations  to  the  existing  world.  The 
religious  Purist,  striving  to  conceive  him  withdrawn  from 
those  relations,  effaces  from  the  countenance  the  traces  of  all 
transitory  passion,  illumines  it  with  holy  hope  and  love,  and 
seals  it  with  the  serenity  of  heavenly  peace  ; he  conceals  the 
forms  of  the  body  by  the  deep-folded  garment,  or  else  repre- 
sents them  under  severely  chastened  types,  and  would  rather 
paint  them  emaciatedv^by  the  fast,  or  pale  from  the  torture, 
than  strengthened  by  exertion,  or  flushed  by  emotion.  But 
the  great  Naturalist  takes  the  human  being  in  its  wholeness, 
in  its  mortal  as  well  as  its  spiritual  strength.  Capable  of 
sounding  and  sympathizing  with  the  whole  range  of  its  pas- 
sions, he  brings  one  majestic  harmony  out  of  them  all ; he 
represents  it  fearlessly  in  all  its  acts  and  thoughts,  in  its 
haste,  its  anger,  its  sensuality,  and  its  pride,  as  well  as  in  its 
fortitude  or  faith,  but  makes  it  noble  in  them  all ; he  casts 
aside  the  veil  from  the  body,  and  beholds  the  mysteries  of  its 
form  like  an  angel  looking  down  on  an  inferior  creature: 
there  is  nothing  which  he  is  reluctant  to  behold,  nothing  that 
he  is  ashamed  to  confess  ; with  all  that  lives,  triumphing, 
falling,  or  suffering,  he  claims  kindred,  either  in  majesty  or  in 
mercy,  yet  standing,  in  a sort,  afar  off,  unmoved  even  in  the 
deepness  of  his  sympathy ; for  the  spirit  within  him  is  too 
thoughtful  to  be  grieved,  too  brave  to  be  appalled,  and  too 
pure  to  be  polluted. 

§ lix.  How  far  beneath  these  two  ranks  of  men  shall  we 
place,  in  the  scale  of  being,  those  whose  pleasure  is  only  in  sin 
or  in  suffering  ; who  habitually  contemplate  humanity  in  pov- 

* Not  selfish  fear,  caused  by  want  of  trust  in  Godf  or  of  resolution  m 
the  soul. 


192 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


erty  or  decrepitude,  fury  or  sensuality  ; whose  works  aro 
either  temptations  to  its  weakness,  or  triumphs  over  its  ruin, 
and  recognize  no  other  subjects  for  thought  or  admiration 
than  the  subtlety  of  the  robber,  the  rage  of  the  soldier,  or  the 
joy  of  the  Sybarite.  It  seems  strange,  when  thus  definitely 
stated,  that  such  a school  should  exist.  Yet  consider  a little 
what  gaps  and  blanks  would  disfigure  our  gallery  and  chamber 
walls,  in  places  that  we  have  long  approached  with  reverence, 
if  every  picture,  every  statue,  were  removed  from  them,  of 
which  the  subject  was  either  the  vice  or  the  misery  of  man- 
kind, portrayed  without  any  moral  purpose  : consider  the  in- 
numerable groups  having  reference  merely  to  various  forms 
of  passion,  low  or  high  ; drunken  revels  and  brawls  among 
peasants,  gambling  or  fighting  scenes  among  soldiers,  amours 
and  intrigues  among  every  class,  brutal  battle  pieces,  banditti 
subjects,  gluts  of  torture  and  death  in  famine,  wreck,  or 
slaughter,  for  the  sake  merely  of  the  excitement, — that  quick- 
ening and  suppling  of  the  dull  spirit  that  cannot  be  gained 
for  it  but  by  bathing  it  in  blood,  afterward  to  wither  back  into 
stained  and  stiffened  apathy  ; and  then  that  whole  vast  false 
heaven  of  sensual  passion,  full  of  nymphs,  satyrs,  graces,  god- 
desses, and  I know  not  what,  from  its  high  seventh  circle  in 
Correggio’s  Antiope,  down  to  the  Grecized  ballet-dancers  and 
smirking  Cupids  of  the  Parisian  upholsterer.  Sweep  away  all 
this,  remorselessly,  and  see  how  much  art  we  should  have 
left. 

§ lx.  And  yet  these  are  only  the  grossest  manifestations  of 
the  tendency  of  the  school.  There  are  subtler,  yet  not  less 
certain,  signs  of  it  in  the  works  of  men  who  stand  high  in  the 
world’s  list  of  sacred  painters.  I doubt  not  that  the  reader 
wTas  surprised  when  I named  Murillo  among  the  men  of  this 
third  rank.  Yet,  go  into  the  Dulwich  Gallery,  and  meditate 
for  a little  over  that  much  celebrated  picture  of  the  two  beg- 
gar boys,  one  eating  lying  on  the  ground,  the  other  standing 
beside  him.  We  have  among  our  own  painters  one  who  can- 
not indeed  be  set  beside  Murillo  as  a painter  of  Madonnas,  for 
he  is  a pure  Naturalist,  and,  never  having  seen  a Madonna, 
does  not  paint  any  ; but  who,  as  a painter  of  beggar  or  peas-* 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


193 


ant  boys,  may  be  set  beside  Murillo,  or  any  one  else, — W. 
Hunt.  He  loves  peasant  boys,  because  lie  finds  them  more 
roughly  and  picturesquely  dressed,  and  more  healthily  colored, 
than  others.  And  he  paints  all  that  he  sees  in  them  fear- 
lessly ; all  the  health  and  humor,  and  freshness,  and  vitality, 
together  with  such  awkwardness  and  stupidity,  and  what  else 
of  negative  or  positive  harm  there  may  be  in  the  creature  ; 
but  yet  so  that  on  the  whole  we  love  it,  and  find  it  perhaps 
even  beautiful,  or  if  not,  at  least  we  see  that  there  is  capabil- 
ity of  good  in  it,  rather  than  of  evil  ; and  all  is  lighted  up  by 
a sunshine  and  sweet  color  that  makes  the  smock-frock  as 
precious  as  cloth  of  gold.  But  look  at  those  two  ragged  and 
vicious  vagrants  that  Murillo  has  gathered  out  of  the  street. 
You  smile  at  first,  because  they  are  eating  so  naturally,  and 
their  roguery  is  so  complete.  But  is  there  anything  else 
than  roguery  there,  or  was  it  well  for  the  painter  to  give  his 
time  to  the  painting  of  those  repulsive  and  wicked  children  ? 
Do  you  feel  moved  with  any  charity  towards  children  as  you 
look  at  them  ? Are  we  the  least  more  likely  to  take  any  in- 
terest in  ragged  schools,  or  to  help  the  next  pauper  child  that 
comes  in  our  way,  because  the  painter  has  shown  us  a cunning 
beggar  feeding  greedily  ? Mark  the  choice  of  the  act.  He 
might  have  shown  hunger  in  other  ways,  and  given  interest 
to  even  this  act  of  eating,  by  making  the  face  wasted,  or  the 
eye  wistful.  But  he  did  not  care  to  do  this.  He  delighted 
merely  in  the  disgusting  manner  of  eating,  the  food  filling 
the  cheek  ; the  boy  is  not  hungry,  else  he  would  not  turn 
round  to  talk  and  grin  as  he  eats. 

§ lx i.  But  observe  another  point  in  the  lower  figure.  It 
lies  so  that  the  sole  of  the  foot  is  turned  towards  the  spectator  ; 
not  because  it  would  have  lain  less  easily  in  another  attitude, 
but  that  the  painter  may  draw,  and  exhibit,  the  grey  dust  en- 
grained in  the  foot.  Do  not  call  this  the  painting  of  nature : 
it  is  mere  delight  in  foulness.  The  lesson,  if  there  be  any,  in 
the  picture,  is  not  one  whit  the  stronger.  We  all  know  that 
beggar’s  bare  foot  cannot  be  clean  ; there  is  no  need  to  thrust 
its  degradation  into  the  light,  as  if  no  human  imagination  were 
vigorous  enough  for  its  conception. 

Yol.  II. — 13 


194 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lxii.  The  position  of  the  Sensualists,  in  treatment  of  land-* 
scape,  is  less  distinctly  marked  than  in  that  of  the  figure  : be- 
cause even  the  wildest  passions  of  nature  are  noble  : but  the 
inclination  is  manifested  by  carelessness  in  marking  generic 
form  in  trees  and  flowers  : by  their  preferring  confused  and 
irregular  arrangements  of  foliage  or  foreground  to  symmetri- 
cal and  simple  grouping  ; by  their  general  choice  of  such  pict- 
uresqueness as  results  from  decay,  disorder,  and  disease,  rather 
than  of  that  which  is  consistent  with  the  perfection  of  the 
things  in  which  it  is  found  ; and  by  their  imperfect  rendering 
of  the  elements  of  strength  and  beauty  in  all  things.  I pro- 
pose to  work  out  this  subject  fully  in  the  last  volume  of  “ Mod- 
ern Painters  ; ” but  I trust  that  enough  has  been  here  said  to 
enable  the  reader  to  understand  the  relations  of  the  three 
great  classes  of  artists,  and  therefore  also  the  kinds  of  morbid 
condition  into  which  the  two  higher  (for  the  last  has  no  other 
than  a morbid  condition)  are  liable  to  fall.  For,  since  the 
function  of  the  Naturalists  is  to  represent,  as  far  as  may  be, 
the  whole  of  nature,  and  the  Purists  to  represent  what  is  abso- 
lutely good  for  some  special  purpose  or  time,  it  is  evident  that 
both  are  liable  to  error  from  shortness  of  sight,  and  the  last 
also  from  weakness  of  judgment.  I say,  in  the  first  place,  both 
may  err  from  shortness  of  sight,  from  not  seeing  all  that  there 
is  in  nature  ; seeing  only  the  outsides  of  things,  or  those  points 
of  them  which  bear  least  on  the  matter  in  hand.  For  instance, 
a modern  continental  Naturalist  sees  the  anatomy  of  a limb 
thoroughly,  but  does  not  see  its  color  against  the  sky,  which 
latter  fact  is  to  a painter  far  the  more  important  of  the  two. 
And  because  it  is  always  easier  to  see  the  surface  than  the 
depth  of  things,  the  full  sight  of  them  requiring  the  highest 
powers  of  penetration,  sympathy,  and  imagination,  the  world 
is  full  of  vulgar  Naturalists  : not  Sensualists,  observe,  not 
men  who  delight  in  evil ; but  men  who  never  see  the  deepest 
good,  and  who  bring  discredit  on  all  painting  of  Nature  by 
the  little  that  they  discover  in  her.  And  the  Purist,  besides 
being  liable  to  this  same  shortsightedness,  is  liable  also  to 
fatal  errors  of  judgment ; for  he  may  think  that  good  which 
is  not  so,  and  that  the  highest  good  which  is  the  least.  And 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


195 


thus  the  world  is  full  of  vulgar  Purists,*  who  bring  discredit 
on  all  selection  by  the  silliness  of  their  choice  ; and  this  the 
more,  because  the  very  becoming  a Purist  is  commonly  indi- 
cative of  some  slight  degree  of  weakness,  readiness  to  be  of- 
fended, or  narrowness  of  understanding  of  the  ends  of  things  : 
the  greatest  men  being,  in  all  times  of  art,  Naturalists,  without 
any  exception  ; and  the  greatest  Purists  being  those  who  ap- 
proach nearest  to  the  Naturalists,  as  Benozzo  Gozzoli  and 
Perugino.  Hence  there  is  a tendency  in  the  Naturalists  to 
despise  the  Purists,  and  in  the  Purists  to  be  offended  with  the 
Naturalists  (not  understanding  them,  and  confounding  them 
with  the  Sensualists)  ; and  this  is  grievously  harmful  to  both. 

§ lxiii.  Of  the  various  forms  of  resultant  mischief  it  is  not 
here  the  place  to  speak : the  reader  may  already  be  somewhat 
wearied  with  a statement  which  has  led  us  apparently  so  far 
from  our  immediate  subject.  But  the  digression  was  neces- 
sary, in  order  that  I might  clearly  define  the  sense  in  which  I 
use  the  word  Naturalism  when  I state  it  to  be  the  third  most 
essential  characteristic  of  Gothic  architecture.  I mean  that 
the  Gothic  builders  belong  to  the  central  or  greatest  rank  in 
both  the  classifications  of  artists  which  we  have  just  made ; 

* I reserve  for  another  place  the  full  discussion  of  this  interesting  sub- 
ject, which  here  would  have  led  me  too  far ; hut  it  must  he  noted,  in 
passing,  that  this  vulgar  Purism,  which  rejects  truth,  not  because  it  is 
vicious,  hut  because  it  is  humble,  and  consists  not  in  choosing  what  is 
good,  but  in  disguising  what  is  rough,  extends  itself  into  every  species 
of  art.  The  most  definite  instance  of  it  is  the  dressing  of  characters  of 
peasantry  in  an  opera  or  ballet  scene  ; and  the  walls  of  our  exhibitions 
are  full  of  works  of  art  which  “ exalt  nature  ” in  the  same  way,  not  by 
revealing  what  is  great  in  the  heart,  but  by  smoothing  what  is  coarse  in 
the  complexion.  There  is  nothing,  I believe,  so  vulgar,  so  hopeless,  so 
indicative  of  an  irretrievably  base  mind,  as  this  species  of  Purism.  Of 
healthy  Purism  carried  to  the  utmost  endurable  length  in  this  direction, 
exalting  the  heart  first,  and  the  features  with  it,  perhaps  the  most 
characteristic  instance  I can  give  is  Stotliard’s  vignette  to  “ Jorasse,”  in 
Rogers’s  Italy  ; at  least  it  would  be  so  if  it  could  be  seen  beside  a real 
group  of  Swiss  girls.  The  poems  of  Rogers,  compared  with  those  of 
Crabbe,  are  admirable  instances  of  the  healthiest  Purism  and  healthiest 
Naturalism  in  poetry.  The  first  great  Naturalists  of  Christian  art  were 
Orcagna  and  Giotto. 


196 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


that,  considering  all  artists  as  either  men  of  design,  men  o! 
facts,  or  men  of  both,  the  Gothic  builders  were  men  of  both  ; 
and  that  again,  considering  all  artists  as  either  Purists,  Natu- 
ralists, or  Sensualists,  the  Gothic  builders  were  Naturalists. 

§ lxiy.  I say  first,  that  the  Gothic  builders  were  of  that 
central  class  which  unites  fact  with  design ; but  that  the  part 
of  the  work  which  was  more  especially  their  own  was  the 
truthfulness.  Their  power  of  artistieal  invention  or  arrange- 
ment was  not  greater  than  that  of  Romanesque  and  Byzantine 
workmen  : by  those  workmen  they  were  taught  the  principles, 
and  from  them  received  their  models,  of  design  ; but  to  the 
ornamental  feeling  and  rich  fancy  of  the  Byzantine  the  Gothic 
builder  added  a love  oifact  which  is  never  found  in  the  South. 
Both  Greek  and  Roman  used  conventional  foliage  in  them  or- 
nament, passing  into  something  that  was  not  foliage  at  all, 
knotting  itself  into  strange  cup-like  buds  or  clusters,  and 
growing  out  of  lifeless  rods  instead  of  stems  ; the  Gothic 
sculptor  received  these  types,  at  first,  as  things  that  ought  to 
be,  just  as  we  have  a second  time  received  them  ; but  he 
could  not  rest  in  them.  He  saw  there  was  no  veracity  in 
them,  no  knowledge,  no  vitality.  Do  what  he  would,  he  could 
not  help  liking  the  true  leaves  better  ; and  cautiously,  a little 
at  a time,  he  put  more  of  nature  into  his  work,  until  at  last  it 
was  all  true,  retaining,  nevertheless,  every  valuable  character 
of  the  original  well-disciplined  and  designed  arrangement.* 

§ lxv.  Nor  is  it  only  in  external  and  visible  subject  that 
the  Gothic  workman  wrought  for  truth  : he  is  as  firm  in  his 
rendering  of  imaginative  as  of  actual  truth  ; that  is  to  say, 
when  an  idea  would  have  been  by  a Roman,  or  Byzantine, 
symbolically  represented,  the  Gothic  mind  realizes  it  to  the 
utmost.  For  instance,  the  purgatorial  fire  is  represented  in 
the  mosaic  of  Torcello  (Romanesque)  as  a red  stream,  longitu- 
dinally striped  like  a riband,  descending  out  of  the  throne  of 
Christ,  and  gradually  extending  itself  to  envelope  the  wicked. 
When  we  are  once  informed  what  this  means,  it  is  enough  for 

* The  reader  will  understand  this  in  a moment  by  glancing  at  Plate 
XX.,  the  last  in  this  volume,  where  the  series  1 to  12  represents  the 
change  in  one  kind  of  leaf,  from  the  Byzantine  to  the  perfect  Gothic. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


197 


its  purpose  ; but  the  Gothic  inventor  does  not  leave  the  sign 
in  need  of  interpretation.  He  makes  the  fire  as  like  real  fire 
as  he  can  ; and  in  the  porch  of  St.  Maclou  at  Rouen  the  sculpt- 
ured flames  burst  out  of  the  Hades  gate,  and  flicker  up,  in 
writhing  tongues  of  stone,  through  the  interstices  of  the 
niches,  as  if  the  church  itself  were  on  fire.  This  is  an  extreme 
instance,  but  it  is  all  the  more  illustrative  of  the  entire  difference 
in  temper  and  thought  between  the  two  schools  of  art,  and  of 
the  intense  love  of  veracity  which  influenced  the  Gothic 
design. 

§ lx vi.  I do  not  say  that  this  love  of  veracity  is  always 
healthy  in  its  operation.  I have  above  noticed  the  errors  into 
which  it  falls  from  despising  design  ; and  there  is  another  kind 
of  error  noticeable  in  the  instance  just  given,  in  which  the  love 
of  truth  is  too  hasty,  and  seizes  on  a surface  truth  instead  of 
an  inner  one.  For  in  representing  the  Hades  fire,  it  is  not  the 
mere  form  of  the  flame  which  needs  most  to  be  told,  but  its 
unquenchableness,  its  Divine  ordainment  and  limitation,  and 
its  inner  fierceness,  not  physical  and  material,  but  in  being  the 
expression  of  the  wrath  of  God.  And  these  things  are  not  to 
be  told  by  imitating  the  fire  that  flashes  out  of  a bundle  of 
sticks.  If  we  think  over  his  symbol  a little,  we  shall  perhaps 
find  that  the  Romanesque  builder  told  more  truth  in  that  like- 
ness of  a blood-red  stream,  flowing  between  definite  shores  and 
out  of  God’s  throne,  and  expanding,  as  if  fed  by  a perpetual 
current,  into  the  lake  wherein  the  wicked  are  cast,  than  the 
Gothic  builder  in  those  torch-flickerings  about  his  niches.  But 
this  is  not  to  our  immediate  purpose  ; I am  not  at  present  to 
insist  upon  the  faults  into  which  the  love  of  truth  was  led  in 
the  later  Gothic  times,  but  on  the  feeling  itself,  as  a glorious 
and  peculiar  characteristic  of  the  Northern  builders.  For,  ob- 
serve, it  is  not,  even  in  the  above  instance,  love  of  truth,  but 
want  of  thought,  which  causes  the  fault.  The  love  of  truth, 
as  such,  is  good,  but  when  it  is  misdirected  by  thoughtlessness 
or  over-excited  by  vanity,  and  either  seizes  on  facts  of  small 
value,  or  gathers  them  chiefly  that  it  may  boast  of  its  grasp 
and  apprehension,  its  work  may  well  become  dull  or  offensive. 
Yet  let  us  not,  therefore,  blame  the  inherent  love  of  facts,  but 


198 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  incautiousness  of  their  selection,  and  impertinence  of  their 
statement. 

§ lxvii.  I said,  in  the  second  place,  that  Gothic  work,  when 
referred  to  the  arrangement  of  all  art,  as  purist,  naturalist,  or 
sensualist,  was  naturalist.  This  character  follows  necessarily 
on  its  extreme  love  of  truth,  prevailing  over  the  sense  of  beauty, 
and  causing  it  to  take  delight  in  portraiture  of  every  kind,  and 
to  express  the  various  characters  of  the  human  countenance 
and  form,  as  it  did  the  varieties  of  leaves  and  the  ruggedness 
of  branches.  And  this  tendency  is  both  increased  and  enno- 
bled by  the  same  Christian  humility  which  we  saw  expressed 
in  the  first  character  of  Gothic  work,  its  rudeness.  For  as  that 
resulted  from  a humility  which  confessed  the  imperfection  of 
the  workman,  so  this  naturalist  portraiture  is  rendered  more 
faithful  by  the  humility  which  confesses  the  imperfection  of 
the  subject . The  Greek  sculptor  could  neither  bear  to  confess 
his  own  feebleness,  nor  to  tell  the  faults  of  the  forms  that  he 
portrayed.  But  the  Christian  workman,  believing  that  all  is 
finally  to  work  together  for  good,  freely  confesses  both,  and 
neither  seeks  to  disguise  his  own  roughness  of  work,  nor  his 
subject’s  roughness  of  make.  Yet  this  frankness  being  joined, 
for  the  most  part,  with  depth  of  religious  feeling  in  other  di- 
rections, and  especially  with  charity,  there  is  sometimes  a ten- 
dency to  Purism  in  the  best  Gothic  sculpture  ; so  that  it  fre- 
quently reaches  great  dignity  of  form  and  tenderness  of 
expression,  yet  never  so  as  to  lose  the  veracity  of  portraiture, 
wherever  portraiture  is  possible  : not  exalting  its  kings  into 
demi-gods,  nor  its  saints  into  archangels,  but  giving  what  king- 
liness and  sanctity  was  in  them,  to  the  full,  mixed  with  due 
record  of  their  faults  ; and  this  in  the  most  part  with  a great 
indifference  like  that  of  Scripture  history,  which  sets  down, 
with  unmoved  and  unexcusing  resoluteness,  the  virtues  and 
errors  of  all  men  of  whom  it  speaks,  often  leaving  the  reader 
to  form  his  own  estimate  of  them,  without  an  indication  of  the 
judgment  of  the  historian.  And  this  veracity  is  carried  out  by 
the  Gothic  sculptors  in  the  minuteness  and  generality,  as  well 
as  the  equity,  of  their  delineation  : for  they  do  not  limit  their 
art  to  the  portraiture  of  saints  and  kings,  but  introduce  the 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


199 


most  familiar  scenes  and  most  simple  subjects  ; filling  up  the 
backgrounds  of  Scripture  histories  with  vivid  and  curious  rep- 
resentations of  the  commonest  incidents  of  daily  life,  and  avail- 
ing themselves  of  every  occasion  in  which,  either  as  a symbol, 
or  an  explanation  of  a scene  or  time,  the  things  familiar  to  the 
eye  of  the  workman  could  be  introduced  and  made  of  account. 
Hence  Gothic  sculpture  and  painting  are  not  only  full  of  valu- 
able portraiture  of  the  greatest  men,  but  copious  records  of  all 
the  domestic  customs  and  inferior  arts  of  the  ages  in  which  it 
flourished.* 

§ lxviii.  There  is,  however,  one  direction  in  which  the 
Naturalism  of  the  Gothic  workmen  is  peculiarly  manifested  ; 
and  this  direction  is  even  more  characteristic  of  the  school 
than  the  Naturalism  itself  ; I mean  their  peculiar  fondness 
for  the  forms  of  Vegetation.  In  rendering  the  various  circum- 
stances of  daily  life,  Egyptian  and  Ninevite  sculpture  is  as 
frank  and  as  diffuse  as  the  Gothic.  From  the  highest  pomps 
of  state  or  triumphs  of  battle,  to  the  most  trivial  domestic 
arts  and  amusements,  all  is  taken  advantage  of  to  fill  the 
field  of  granite  with  the  perpetual  interest  of  a crowded 
drama  ; and  the  early  Lombardic  and  Romanesque  sculpture 
is  equally  copious  in  its  description  of  the  familiar  circum- 
stances of  war  and  the  chase.  But  in  all  the  scenes  portrayed 
by  the  workmen  of  these  nations,  vegetation  occurs  only  as 
an  explanatory  accessory  ; the  reed  is  introduced  to  mark  the 
course  of  the  river,  or  the  tree  to  mark  the  covert  of  the  wild 
beast,  or  the  ambush  of  the  enemy,  but  there  is  no  especial 
interest  in  the  forms  of  the  vegetation  strong  enough  to  in- 
duce them  to  make  it  a subject  of  separate  and  accurate 
study.  Again,  among  the  nations  who  followed  the  arts  of 
design  exclusively,  the  forms  of  foliage  introduced  were 

* The  best  art  either  represents  the  facts  of  its  own  day,  or,  if  facts  of 
the  past,  expresses  them  with  accessories  of  the  time  in  which  the  work 
was  done.  All  good  art,  representing  past  events,  is  therefore  full  of  the 
most  frank  anachronism,  and  always  ought  to  be.  No  painter  has  any 
business  to  be  an  antiquarian.  We  do  not  want  his  impressions  or  sup- 
positions respecting  things  that  are  past.  We  want  his  clear  assertions 
respecting  things  present. 


200 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


meagre  and  general,  and  their  real  intricacy  and  life  were 
neither  admired  nor  expressed.  But  to  the  Gothic  workman 
the  living  foliage  became  a subject  of  intense  affection,  and 
he  struggled  to  render  all  its  characters  with  as  much  accu- 
racy as  was  compatible  with  the  laws  of  his  design  and  the 
nature  of  his  material,  not  unfrequently  tempted  in  his  en- 
thusiasm to  transgress  the  one  and  disguise  the  other. 

§ lxix.  There  is  a peculiar  significancy  in  this,  indicative 
both  of  higher  civilization  and  gentler  temperament,  than 
had  before  been  manifested  in  architecture.  Rudeness,  and 
the  love  of  change,  which  we  have  insisted  upon  as  the  first 
elements  of  Gothic,  are  also  elements  common  to  all  healthy 
schools.  But  here  is  a softer  element  mingled  with  them, 
peculiar  to  the  Gothic  itself.  The  rudeness  or  ignorance 
which  would  have  been  painfully  exposed  in  the  treatment  of 
the  human  form,  are  still  not  so  great  as  to  prevent  the  suc- 
cessful rendering  of  the  wayside  herbage  ; and  the  love  of 
change,  which  becomes  morbid  and  feverish  in  following  the 
haste  of  the  hunter,  and  the  rage  of  the  combatant,  is  at  once 
soothed  and  satisfied  as  it  watches  the  wandering  of  the  ten- 
dril, and  the  budding  of  the  flower.  Nor  is  this  all : the  new 
direction  of  mental  interest  marks  an  infinite  change  in  the 
means  and  the  habits  of  life.  The  nations  whose  chief  sup- 
port was  in  the  chase,  whose  chief  interest  wras  in  the  battle, 
whose  chief  pleasure  was  in  the  banquet,  would  take  small 
care  respecting  the  shapes  of  leaves  and  flowers  ; and  notice 
little  in  the  forms  of  the  forest  trees  which  sheltered  them, 
except  the  signs  indicative  of  the  wood  which  would  make 
the  toughest  lance,  the  closest  roof,  or  the  clearest  fire.  The 
affectionate  observation  of  the  grace  and  outward  character 
of  vegetation  is  the  sure  sign  of  a more  tranquil  and  gentle 
existence,  sustained  by  the  gifts,  and  gladdened  by  the  splen- 
dor, of  the  earth.  In  that  careful  distinction  of  species,  and 
richness  of  delicate  and  undisturbed  organization,  which 
characterize  the  Gothic  design,  there  is  the  history  of  rural 
and  thoughtful  life,  influenced  by  habitual  tenderness,  and 
devoted  to  subtle  inquiry  ; and  every  discriminating  and  deli- 
cate touch  of  the  chisel,  as  it  rounds  the  petal  or  guides  the 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


201 


branch,  is  a prophecy  of  the  developement  of  the  entire  body 
of  the  natural  sciences,  beginning  with  that  of  medicine,  of 
the  recovery  of  literature,  and  the  establishment  of  the  most 
necessary  principles  of  domestic  wisdom  and  national  peace. 

§ lxx.  I have  before  alluded  to  the  strange  and  vain  sup- 
position, that  the  original  conception  of  Gothic  architecture 
had  been  derived  from  vegetation, — from  the  symmetry  of 
avenues,  and  the  interlacing  of  branches.  It  is  a supposition 
which  never  could  have  existed  for  a moment  in  the  mind  of 
any  person  acquainted  with  early  Gothic  ; but,  however  idle 
as  a theory,  it  is  most  valuable  as  a testimony  to  the  charac- 
ter of  the  perfected  style.  It  is  precisely  because  the  reverse 
of  this  theory  is  the  fact,  because  the  Gothic  did  not  arise  out 
of,  but  develope  itself  into,  a resemblance  to  vegetation,  that 
this  resemblance  is  so  instructive  as  an  indication  of  the 
temper  of  the  builders.  It  was  no  chance  suggestion  of  the 
form  of  an  arch  from  the  bending  of  a bough,  but  a gradual 
and  continual  discovery  of  a beauty  in  natural  forms  which 
could  be  more  and  more  perfectly  transferred  into  those  of 
stone,  that  influenced  at  once  the  heart  of  the  people,  and  the 
form  of  the  edifice.  The  Gothic  architecture  arose  in  massy 
and  mountainous  strength,  axe-hewn,  and  iron-bound,  block 
heaved  upon  block  by  the  monk’s  enthusiasm  and  the  soldier’s 
force ; and  cramped  and  stanchioned  into  such  weight  of 
grisly  wall,  as  might  bury  the  anchoret  in  darkness,  and  beat 
back  the  utmost  storm  of  battle,  suffering  but  by  the  same 
narrow  crosslet  the  passing  of  the  sunbeam,  or  of  the  arrow. 
Gradually,  as  that  monkish  enthusiasm  became  more  thought- 
ful, and  as  the  sound  of  war  became  more  and  more  intermit- 
tent beyond  the  gates  of  the  convent  or  the  keep,  the  stony 
pillar  grew  slender  and  the  vaulted  roof  grew  light,  till  they 
had  wreathed  themselves  into  the  semblance  of  the  summer 
woods  at  their  fairest,  and  of  the  dead  field-flowers,  long  trod- 
den down  in  blood,  sweet  monumental  statues  were  set  to 
bloom  for  ever,  beneath  the  porch  of  the  temple,  or  the  canopy 
of  the  tomb. 

§ lxxi.  Nor  is  it  only  as  a sign  of  greater  gentleness  or  re- 
finement of  mind,  but  as  a proof  of  the  best  possible  direction 

Or  Of  LiLi* 


202 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


of  this  refinement,  that  the  tendency  of  the  Gothic  to  the  ex** 
pression  of  vegetative  life  is  to  be  admired.  That  sentence  of 
Genesis,  “ I have  given  thee  every  green  herb  for  meat,”  like 
all  the  rest  of  the  book,  has  a profound  symbolical  as  well  as 
a literal  meaning.  It  is  not  merely  the  nourishment  of  the 
body,  but  the  food  of  the  soul,  that  is  intended.  The  green  herb 
is,  of  all  nature,  that  which  is  most  essential  to  the  healthy 
spiritual  life  of  man.  Most  of  us  do  not  need  fine  scenery  ; 
tho  precipice  and  the  mountain  peak  are  not  intended  to  be 
seen  by  all  men, — perhaps  their  power  is  greatest  over  those 
wrho  are  unaccustomed  to  them.  But  trees,  and  fields,  and 
flowers  were  made  for  all,  and  are  necessary  for  all.  God  has 
connected  the  labor  which  is  essential  to  the  bodily  sus- 
tenance, with  the  pleasures  which  are  healthiest  for  the  heart ; 
and  while  He  made  the  ground  stubborn,  He  made  its  herb- 
age fragrant,  and  its  blossoms  fair.  The  proudest  architecture 
that  man  can  build  has  no  higher  honor  than  to  bear  the 
image  and  recall  the  memory  of  that  grass  of  the  field  which 
is,  at  once,  the  type  and  the  support  of  his  existence ; the 
goodly  building  is  then  most  glorious  when  it  is  sculptured 
into  the  likeness  of  the  leaves  of  Paradise ; and  the  great 
Gothic  spirit,  as  we  showed  it  to  be  noble  in  its  disquietude, 
is  also  noble  in  its  hold  of  nature  ; it  is,  indeed,  like  the  dove 
of  Noah,  in  that  she  found  no  rest  upon  the  face  of  the 
waters, — but  like  her  in  this  also,  “Lo,  in  her  mouth  was  an 

OLIVE  BRANCH,  PLUCKED  OFF.” 

§ lxxii.  The  fourth  essential  element  of  the  Gothic  mind 
was  above  stated  to  be  the  sense  of  the  Grotesque  ; but  I 
shall  defer  the  endeavor  to  define  this  most  curious  and  subtle 
character  until  we  have  occasion  to  examine  one  of  the  divis- 
ions of  the  Renaissance  schools,  which  was  morbidly  influ- 
enced by  it  (Yol.  HI.  Chap.  HI.).  It  is  the  less  necessary  to 
insist  upon  it  here,  because  every  reader  familiar  with  Gothic 
architecture  must  understand  what  I mean,  and  will,  I be- 
lieve, have  no  hesitation  in  admitting  that  the  tendency  to 
delight  in  fantastic  and  ludicrous,  as  well  as  in  sublime, 
images,  is  a universal  instinct  of  the  Gothic  imagination. 

§ lxxiii.  The  fifth  element  above  named  was  Rigidity  ; and 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


203 


this  character  1 must  endeavor  carefully  to  define,  for  neither 
the  word  I have  used,  nor  any  other  that  I can  think  of,  will 
express  it  accurately.  For  I mean,  not  merely  stable,  but 
active  rigidity ; the  peculiar  energy  which  gives  tension  to 
movement,  and  stiffness  to  resistance,  which  makes  the  fiercest 
lightning  forked  rather  than  curved,  and  the  stoutest  oak- 
branch  angular  rather  than  bending,  and  is  as  much  seen  in 
the  quivering  of  the  lance  as  in  the  glittering  of  the  icicle. 

§ lxxiv.  I have  before  had  occasion  (Yol.  I.  Chap.  XIII. 
§ vn.)  to  note  some  manifestations  of  this  energy  or  fixedness  ; 
hut  id  must  be  still  more  attentively  considered  here,  as  it 
shows  itself  throughout  the  whole  structure  and  decoration  of 
Gothics  work.  Egyptian  and  Greek  buildings  stand,  for  the 
most  p^rt,  by  their  own  weight  and  mass,  one  stone  passively 
incumbent  on  another  : but  in  the  Gothic  vaults  and  traceries 
there  is  a stiffness  analogous  to  that  of  the  bones  of  a limb,  or 
fibres  of  a tree  ; an  elastic  tension  and  communication  of  force 
from  part  to  part,  and  also  a studious  expression  of  this 
throughout  every  visible  line  of  the  building.  And,  in  like 
manner,  the  Greek  and  Egyptian  ornament  is  either  mere 
surface  engraving,  as  if  the  face  of  the  wall  had  been  stamped 
with  a seal,  or  its  lines  are  flowing,  lithe,  and  luxuriant ; in 
either  case,  there  is  no  expression  of  energy  in  framework  of 
the  ornament  itself.  But  the  Gothic  ornament  stands  out 
in  prickly  independence,  and  frosty  fortitude,  jutting  into 
crockets,  and  freezing  into  pinnacles  ; here  starting  up  into  a 
monster,  there  germinating  into  a blossom  ; anon  knitting 
itself  into  a branch,  alternately  thorny,  bossy,  and  bristly,  or 
writhed  into  every  form  of  nervous  entanglement ; but,  even 
when  most  graceful,  never  for  an  instant  languid,  always 
quickset ; erring,  if  at  all,  ever  on  the  side  of  brusquerie. 

§ lxxv.  The  feelings  or  habits  in  the  workman  which  give 
rise  to  this  character  in  the  work,  are  more  complicated  and 
various  than  those  indicated  by  any  other  sculptural  expres- 
sion hitherto  named.  There  is,  first,  the  habit  of  hard  and 
rapid  working  ; the  industry  of  the  tribes  of  the  North, 
quickened  by  the  coldness  of  the  climate,  and  giving  an  ex- 
pression of  sharp  energy  to  ail  they  do  (as  above  noted,  Yol.  L 


204: 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Chap.  Xni.  § vn.),  as  opposed  to  the  languor  of  the  Southern 
tribes,  however  much  of  tire  there  may  be  in  the  heart  of  that 
languor,  for  lava  itself  may  flow  languidly.  There  is  also  the 
habit  of  finding  enjoyment  in  the  signs  of  cold,  which  is  never 
found,  I believe,  in  the  inhabitants  of  countries  south  of  the 
Alps.  Cold  is  to  them  an  unredeemed  evil,  to  be  suffered,  and 
forgotten  as  soon  as  may  be  ; but  the  long  winter  of  the  North 
forces  the  Goth  (I  mean  the  Englishman,  Frenchman,  Dane, 
or  German),  if  he  would  lead  a happy  life  at  all,  to  find  sources 
of  happiness  in  foul  weather  as  well  as  fair,  and  to  rejoice  in 
the  leafless  as  well  as  in  the  shady  forest.  And  this  we  do 
with  all  our  hearts  ; finding  joerhaps  nearly  as  much  content- 
ment by  the  Christmas  fire  as  in  the  summer  sunshine,  and 
gaining  health  and  strength  on  the  ice-fields  of  winter,  as  well 
as  among  the  meadows  of  spring.  So  that  there  is  nothing 
adverse  or  painful  to  our  feelings  in  the  cramped  and  stiffened 
structure  of  vegetation  checked  by  cold  ; and  instead  of  seek- 
ing, like  the  Southern  sculptor,  to  express  only  the  softness 
of  leafage  nourished  in  all  tenderness,  and  tempted  into  all 
luxuriance  by  warm  winds  and  glowing  rays,  we  find  pleasure 
in  dwelling  upon  the  crabbed,  perverse,  and  morose  animation 
of  plants  that  have  known  little  kindness  from  earth  or  heaven, 
but,  season  after  season,  have  had  their  best  efforts  palsied  by 
frost,  their  brightest  buds  buried  under  snow,  and  their  good- 
liest limbs  lopped  by  tempest. 

§ lx xvi.  There  are  many  subtle  sympathies  and  affections 
which  join  to  confirm  the  Gothic  mind  in  this  peculiar  choice 
of  subject ; and  when  we  add  to  the  influence  of  these,  the 
necessities  consequent  upon  the  employment  of  a rougher 
material,  compelling  the  workman  to  seek  for  vigor  of  effect, 
rather  than  refinement  of  texture  or  accuracy  of  form,  we 
have  direct  and  manifest  causes  for  much  of  the  difference 
. between  the  northern  and  southern  cast  of  conception  : but 
there  are  indirect  causes  holding  a far  more  important  place 
in  the  Gothic  heart,  though  less  immediate  in  their  influence 
on  design.  Strength  of  will,  independence  of  character,  reso- 
luteness of  purpose,  impatience  of  undue  control,  and  that 
general  tendency  to  set  the  individual  reason  against  authority. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


205 


and  the  individual  deed  against  destiny,  which,  in  the  Northern 
tribes,  has  opposed  itself  throughout  all  ages  to  the  languid 
submission,  in  the  Southern,  of  thought  to  tradition,  and 
purpose  to  fatality,  are  all  more  or  less  traceable  in  the  rigid 
lines,  vigorous  and  various  masses,  and  daringly  projecting 
and  independent  structure  of  the  Northern  Gothic  ornament : 
•while  the  opposite  feelings  are  in  like  manner  legible  in  the 
graceful  and  softly  guided  waves  and  wreathed  bands,  in  which 
Southern  decoration  is  constantly  disposed  ; in  its  tendency  to 
lose  its  independence,  and  fuse  itself  into  the  surface  of  the 
masses  upon  which  it  is  traced  ; and  in  the  expression  seen  so 
often,  in  the  arrangement  of  those  masses  themselves,  of  an 
abandonment  of  their  strength  to  an  inevitable  necessity,  or  a 
listless  repose. 

§ lxxvii.  There  is  virtue  in  the  measure,  and  error  in  the 
excess,  of  both  these  characters  of  mind,  and  in  both  of  the 
styles  which  they  have  created  ; the  best  architecture,  and  the 
best  temper,  are  those  which  unite  them  both ; and  this  fifth 
impulse  of  the  Gothic  heart  is  therefore  that  which  needs 
most  caution  in  its  indulgence.  It  is  more  definitely  Gothic 
than  any  other,  but  the  best  Gothic  building  is  not  that  which 
is  most  Gothic  : it  can  hardly  be  too  frank  in  its  confession  of 
rudeness,  hardly  too  rich  in  its  changefulness,  hardly  too 
faithful  in  its  naturalism  ; but  it  may  go  too  far  in  its  rigidity, 
and,  like  the  great  Puritan  spirit  in  its  extreme,  lose  itself 
either  in  frivolity  of  division,  or  perversity  of  purpose.*  It 
actually  did  so  in  its  later  times ; but  it  is  gladdening  to 
remember  that  in  its  utmost  nobleness,  the  very  temper  which 
has  been  thought  most  adverse  to  it,  the  Protestant  spirit  of 
Self-dependence  and  inquiry,  was  expressed  in  its  every  line. 
Faith  and  aspiration  there  were,  in  every  Christian  ecclesias- 
tical building,  from  the  first  century  to  the  fifteenth  ; but  the 

* See  the  account  of  the  meeting  at  Talla  Linns,  in  1682,  given  in  the 
fourth  chapter  of  the  “Heart  of  Midlothian.”  At  length  they  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  4 4 they  who  owned  (or  allowed)  such  names  as 
Monday,  Tuesday,  January,  February,  and  so  forth,  served  themselves 
heirs  to  the  same  if  not  greater  punishment  than  had  been  denounced 
against  the  idolaters  of  old.” 


206 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


moral  habits  to  which  England  in  this  age  owes  the  kind  o! 
greatness  that  she  has, — the  habits  of  philosophical  investiga- 
tion, of  accurate  thought,  of  domestic  seclusion  and  indepen- 
dence, of  stern  self-reliance,  and  sincere  upright  searching 
into  religious  truth, — were  only  traceable  in  the  features 
which  were  the  distinctive  creation  of  the  Gothic  schools,  in 
the  veined  foliage,  and  thorny  fret-work,  and  shadowy  niche, 
and  buttressed  pier,  and  fearless  height  of  subtle  pinnacle 
and  crested  tower,  sent  like  an  “ unperplexed  question  up  to 
Heaven.”* 

§ lxxviii.  Last,  because  the  least  essential,  of  the  constitu- 
ent elements  of  this  noble  school,  was  placed  that  of  Redun- 
dance,— the  uncalculating  bestowal  of  the  wealth  of  its  labor. 
There  is,  indeed,  much  Gothic,  and  that  of  the  best  period,  in 
which  this  element  is  hardly  traceable,  and  which  depends  for 
its  effect  almost  exclusively  on  loveliness  of  simple  design  and 
grace  of  uninvolved  proportion : still,  in  the  most  character- 
istic buildings,  a certain  portion  of  their  effect  depends  upon 
accumulation  of  ornament ; and  many  of  those  which  have 
most  influence  on  the  minds  of  men,  have  attained  it  by  means 
of  this  attribute  alone.  And  although,  by  careful  study  of  the 
school,  it  is  possible  to  arrive  at  a condition  of  taste  which 
shall  be  better  contented  by  a few  perfect  lines  than  by  a 
whole  facade  covered  with  fretwork,  the  building  which  only 
satisfies  such  a taste  is  not  to  be  considered  the  best.  For  the 
very  first  requirement  of  Gothic  architecture  being,  as  we  saw 
above,  that  it  shall  both  admit  the  aid,  and  appeal  to  the  ad- 
miration, of  the  rudest  as  well  as  the  most  refined  minds,  the 
richness  of  the  work  is,  paradoxical  as  the  statement  may  ap- 
pear, a part  of  its  humility.  No  architecture  is  so  haughty  as 
that  which  is  simple  ; which  refuses  to  address  the  eye,  except 
in  a few  clear  and  forceful  lines  ; which  implies,  in  offering  so 
little  to  our  regards,  that  all  it  has  offered  is  perfect ; and  dis- 
dains, either  by  the  complexity  or  the  attractiveness  of  its  feat- 

* See  the  beautiful  description  of  Florence  in  Elizabeth  Browning’s 

Casa  Guidi  Windows,”  which  is  not  only  a noble  poem,  but  the  only 
book  I have  seen  which,  favoring  the  Liberal  cause  in  Italy,  gives  a jusj 
account  of  the  incapacities  of  the  modern  Italian. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


207 


tires,  to  embarrass  our  investigation,  or  betray  us  into  delight. 
That  humility,  which  is  the  very  life  of  the  Gothic  school,  is 
shown  not  only  in  the  imperfection,  but  in  the  accumulation, 
of  ornament.  The  inferior  rank  of  the  workman  is  often 
shown  as  much  in  the  richness,  as  the  roughness,  of  his  work  ; 
and  if  the  co-operation  of  every  hand,  and  the  sympathy  of 
every  heart,  are  to  be  received,  we  must  be  content  to  allow 
the  redundance  which  disguises  the  failure  of  the  feeble,  and 
wins  the  regard  of  the  inattentive.  There  are,  however,  far 
nobler  interests  mingling,  in  the  Gothic  heart,  with  the  rude 
love  of  decorative  accumulation  : a magnificent  enthusiasm, 
which  feels  as  if  it  never  could  do  enough  to  reach  the  fulness 
of  its  ideal ; an  unselfishness  of  sacrifice,  which  would  rather 
cast  fruitless  labor  before  the  altar  than  stand  idle  in  the 
market ; and,  finally,  a profound  sympathy  with  the  fulness 
and  wealth  of  the  material  universe,  rising  out  of  that  Natural- 
ism whose  operation  we  have  already  endeavored  to  define. 
The  sculptor  who  sought  for  his  models  among  the  forest 
leaves,  could  not  but  quickly  and  deeply  feel  that  complexity 
need  not  involve  the  loss  of  grace,  nor  richness  that  of  repose  ; 
and  every  hour  which  he  spent  in  the  study  of  the  minute  and 
various  work  of  Nature,  made  him  feel  more  forcibly  the  bar- 
renness of  what  was  best  in  that  of  man  : nor  is  it  to  be  won- 
dered at,  that,  seeing  her  perfect  and  exquisite  creations 
poured  forth  in  a profusion  which  conception  could  not  grasp 
nor  calculation  sum,  he  should  think  that  it  ill  became  him  to 
be  niggardly  of  his  own  rude  craftsmanship  ; and  where  he 
saw  throughout  the  universe  a faultless  beauty  lavished  on 
measureless  spaces  of  broidered  field  and  blooming  mountain, 
to  grudge  his  poor  and  imperfect  labor  to  the  few  stones  that 
he  had  raised  one  upon  another,  for  habitation  or  memorial. 
The  years  of  his  life  passed  away  before  his  task  wras  ac- 
complished ; but  generation  succeeded  generation  with  un- 
wearied enthusiasm,  and  the  cathedral  front  was  at  last  lost  in 
the  tapestry  of  its  traceries,  like  a rock  among  the  thickets  and 
herbage  of  spring. 

§ lxxix.  We  have  now,  I believe,  obtained  a view  approach- 
ing to  completeness  of  the  various  moral  or  imaginative  ele- 


208 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ments  which  composed  the  inner  spirit  of  Gothic  architecture. 
We  have,  in  the  second  place,  to  define  its  outward  form. 

Now,  as  the  Gothic  spirit  is  made  up  of  several  elements, 
some  of  which  may,  in  particular  examples,  be  wanting,  so 
the  Gothic  form  is  made  up  of  minor  conditions  of  form, 
some  of  which  may,  in  particular  examples,  be  imperfectly  de- 
veloped. 

We  cannot  say,  therefore,  that  a building  is  either  Gothic 
or  not  Gothic  in  form,  any  more  than  we  can  in  spirit.  We 
can  only  say  that  it  is  more  or  less  Gothic,  in  proportion  to 
the  number  of  Gothic  forms  which  it  unites. 

§ lxxx.  There  have  been  made  lately  many  subtle  and  in- 
genious endeavors  to  base  the  definition  of  Gothic  form  en- 
tirely upon  the  roof-vaulting  ; endeavors  which  are  both 
forced  and  futile  : for  many  of  the  best  Gothic  buildings  in 
the  world  have  roofs  of  timber,  which  have  no  more  connection 
with  the  main  structure  of  the  walls  of  the  edifice  than  a hat 
has  with  that  of  the  head  it  protects  ; and  other  Gothic  build- 
ings are  merely  enclosures  of  spaces,  as  ramparts  and  walls, 
or  enclosures  of  gardens  or  cloisters,  and  have  no  roofs  at  all, 
in  the  sense  in  which  the  word  “roof  ” is  commonly  accepted. 
But  every  reader  who  has  ever  taken  the  slightest  interest  in 
architecture  must  know  that  there  is  a great  popular  impres- 
sion on  this  matter,  which  maintains  itself  stiffly  in  its  old 
form,  in  spite  of  all  ratiocination  and  definition  ; namely,  that 
a flat  lintel  from  pillar  to  pillar  is  Grecian,  a round  arch  Nor- 
man or  Romanesque,  and  a pointed  arch  Gothic. 

And  the  old  popular  notion,  as  far  as  it  goes,  is  perfectly 
right,  and  can  never  be  bettered.  The  most  striking  outward 
feature  in  all  Gothic  architecture  is,  that  it  is  composed  of 
pointed  arches,  as  in  Romanesque  that  it  is  in  like  manner 
composed  of  round  ; and  this  distinction  would  be  quite  as 
clear,  though  the  roofs  were  taken  off  every  cathedral  in  Eu- 
rope. And  yet,  if  we  examine  carefully  into  the  real  force  and 
meaning  of  the  term  “roof”  we  shall  perhaps  be  able  to  re- 
tain the  old  popular  idea  in  a definition  of  Gothic  architecture 
which  shall  also  express  whatever  dependence  that  architect- 
ure has  upon  true  forms  of  roofing. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


209 


§ lxxxi.  In  Chap.  XIII.  of  the  first  volume,  the  reader 
will  remember  that  roofs  were  considered  as  generally  divided 
into  two  parts  ; the  roof  proper,  that  is  to  say,  the  shell,  vault, 
or  ceiling,  internally  visible  ; and  the  roof -mask,  which  pro- 
tects this  lower  roof  from  the  weather.  In  some  buildings 
these  parts  are  united  in  one  framework  ; but,  in  most,  they 
are  more  or  less  independent  of  each  other,  and  in  nearly 
all  Gothic  buildings  there  is  considerable  interval  between 
them. 

Now  it  will  often  happen,  as  above  noticed,  that  owing  to 
the  nature  of  the  apartments  required,  or  the  materials  at 
hand,  the  roof  proper  may  be  flat,  coved,  or  domed,  in  build- 
ings which  in  their  walls  employ  pointed  arches,  and  are,  in 
the  straitest  sense  of  the  word,  Gothic  in  all  other  respects. 
Yet  so  far  forth  as  the  roofing  alone  is  concerned,  they  are 
not  Gothic  unless  the  pointed  arch  be  the  principal  form 
adopted  either  in  the  stone  vaulting  or  the  timbers  of  the 
roof  proper. 

I shall  say  then,  in  the  first  place,  that  “ Gothic  architecture 
is  that  which  uses,  if  possible,  the  pointed  arch  in  the  roof 
proper.”  This  is  the  first  step  in  our  definition. 

§ lxxxii.  Secondly.  Although  there  may  be  many  advis- 
able or  necessary  forms  for  tlio  lower  roof  or  ceiling,  there  is, 
in  cold  countries  exposed  to  rain  and  snow,  only  one  advisable 
form  for  the  roof-mask,  and  that  is  the  gable,  for  this  alone 
will  throw  off  both  rain  and  snow  from  all  parts  of  its  surface 
as  speedily  as  possible.  Snow  can  lodge  on  the  top  of  a dome, 
not  on  the  ridge  c . • gable.  And  thus,  as  far  as  roofing  is  con- 
cerned, the  gable  is  a far  more  essential  feature  of  Northern 
architecture  than  the  pointed  vault,  for  the  one  is  a thorough 
necessity,  the  other  often  a graceful  conventionality  : the  gable 
occurs  in  the  timber  roof  of  every  dwelling-house  and  every 
cottage,  but  not  the  vault ; and  the  gable  built  on  a polygonal 
or  circular  plan,  is  the  origin  of  the  turret  and  spire  ; * and  a] 
the  so-called  aspiration  of  Gothic  architecture  is,  as 
noticed  (Yol.  I.  Chap.  XII.  § vi.),  nothing  more  than  its 

* Salisbury  spire  is  only  a tower  with  a polygonal  gabled  roof  < 
and  so  also  the  celebrated  spires  of  Caen  and  Coutances. 

VOL.  II. — li 


210 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


velopement.  So  that  we  must  add  to  our  definition  another 
clause,  which  will  be,  at  present,  by  far  the  most  important, 
and  it  will  stand  thus  : “ Gothic  architecture  is  that  which  uses 
the  pointed  arch  for  the  roof  proper,  and  the  gable  for  the 
roof-mask.” 

§ lxxxiii.  And  here,  in  passing,  let  us  notice  a principle  as 
true  in  architecture  as  in  morals.  It  is  not  the  compelled,  but 
the  wilful , transgression  of  law  which  corrupts  the  character. 
Sin  is  not  in  the  act,  but  in  the  choice.  It  is  a law  for  Gothic 
architecture,  that  it  shall  use  the  pointed  arch  for  its  roof 
proper  ; but  because,  in  many  cases  of  domestic  building,  this 
becomes  impossible  for  want  of  room  (the  whole  height  of  the 
apartment  being  required  everywhere),  or  in  various  other 
ways  inconvenient,  flat  ceilings  may  be  used,  and  yet  the 
Gothic  shall  not  lose  its  purity.  But  in  the  roof-mask,  there 
can  be  no  necessity  nor  reason  for  a change  of  form  : the  gable 
is  the  best ; and  if  any  other — dome,  or  bulging  crown,  or 
whatsoever  else — be  employed  at  all,  it  must  be  in  pure 
caprice,  and  wilful  transgression  of  law.  And  wherever, 
therefore,  this  is  done,  the  Gothic  has  lost  its  character  ; it  is 
pure  Gothic  no  more. 

§ lxxxiv.  And  this  last  clause  of  the  definition  is  to  be 
more  strongly  insisted  upon,  because  it  includes  multitudes  of 
buildings,  especially  domestic,  wdiich  are  Gothic  in  spirit,  but 
which  we  are  not  in  the  habit  of  embracing  in  our  general  con- 
ception of  Gothic  architecture  ; multitudes  of  street  dwelling- 
houses  and  straggling  country  farm-houses,  built  with  little 
care  for  beauty,  or  observance  of  Gothic  laws  in  vaults  or 
windows,  and  yet  maintaining  their  character  by  the  sharp 
and  quaint  gables  of  the  roofs.  And,  for  the  reason  just 
given,  a house  is  far  more  Gothic  which  has  square  windows, 
and  a boldly  gabled  roof,  than  the  one  which  has  pointed 
arches  for  the  windows,  and  a domed  or  flat  roof.  For  it 
ften  happened  in  the  best  Gothic  times,  as  it  must  in  all 
es,  that  it  was  more  easy  and  convenient  to  make  a window 
are  than  pointed  ; not  but  that,  as  above  emphatically 
the  richness  of  church  architecture  wTas  also  found  in^ 
, and  systematically  “ when  the  pointed  arch  was 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


211 


used  in  the  church  it  was  used  in  the  street,”  only  in  all  times 
there  were  cases  in  which  men  could  not  build  as  they  would, 
and  were  obliged  to  construct  their  doors  or  windows  in  the 
readiest  way  ; and  this  readiest  way  was  then,  in  small  work, 
as  it  will  be  to  the  end  of  time,  to  put  a flat  stone  for  a lintel 
and  build  the  windows  as  in  Fig.  VIII.  ; and  the  occurrence 
of  such  windows  in  a building  or  a street  will  not  un-Go  thicize 
them,  so  long  as  the  bold  gable  roof  be  retained,  and  the  spirit 
of  the  work  be  visibly  Gothic  in  other  respects.  But  if  the 
roof  be  wilfully  and  conspicuously  of  any  other  form  than  the 
gable, — if  it  be  domed,  or  Turkish,  or  Chinese, — the  building 
has  positive  corruption  mingled  with  its  Gothic  elements,  in 
proportion  to  the  conspicuous- 
ness of  the  roof  ; and,  if  not 
absolutely  un-Gothicized,  can 
maintain  its  character  only  by 
such  vigor  of  vital  Gothic  ener- 
gy in  other  parts  as  shall  cause 
the  roof  to  be  forgotten,  thrown 
off  like  an  eschar  from  the  living  frame.  Nevertheless,  we 
must  always  admit  that  it  may  be  forgotten,  and  that  if  the 
Gothic  seal  be  indeed  set  firmly  on  the  walls,  we  are  not  to 
cavil  at  the  forms  reserved  for  the  tiles  and  leads.  For,  observe, 
as  our  definition  at  present  stands,  being  understood  of  large 
roofs  only,  it  will  allow  a conical  glass-furnace  to  be  a Gothic 
building,  but  will  not  allow  so  much,  either  of  the  Duomo  of 
Florence,  or  the  Baptistery  of  Pisa.  We  must  either  mend  it, 
therefore,  or  understand  it  in  some  broader  sense. 

§ lxxxv.  And  now,  if  the  reader  will  look  back  to  the  fifth 
paragraph  of  Chap.  III.  Vol.  I.,  he  will  find  that  I carefully 
extended  my  definition  of  a roof  so  as  to  include  more  than  is 
usually  understood  by  the  term.  It  was  there  said  to  be  the 
covering  of  a space,  narrow  or  zoide.  It  does  not  in  the  least 
signify,  with  respect  to  the  real  nature  of  the  covering,  whether 
the  space  protected  be  two  feet  wide,  or  ten  ; though  in  the 
one  case  we  call  the  protection  an  arch,  in  the  other  a vault 
or  roof.  But  the  real  point  to  be  considered  is,  the  manner 
in  which  this  protection  stands,  and  not  whether  it  is  narrow 


Fig.  VIII. 


212 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


or  broad.  We  call  the  vaulting  of  a bridge  “ an  arch,”  be-, 
cause  it  is  narrow  with  respect  to  the  river  it  crosses  ; but  if 
it  were  built  above  us  on  the  ground,  we  should  call  it  a wag- 
gon vault,  because  then  we  should  feel  the  breadth  of  it.  The 
real  question  is  the  nature  of  the  curve,  not  the  extent  of 
space  over  which  it  is  carried  : and  this  is  more  the  case  with 
respect  to  Gothic  than  to  any  other  architecture  ; for,  in  the 
greater  number  of  instances,  the  form  of  the  roof  is  entirely 
dependent  on  the  ribs ; the  domical  shells  being  constructed 
in  all  kinds  of  inclinations,  quite  undeterminable  by  the  eye, 
and  all  that  is  definite  in  their  character  being  fixed  by  the 
curves  of  the  ribs. 

§ lxxxvi.  Let  us  then  consider  our  definition  as  including 
the  narrowest  arch,  or  tracery  bar,  as  well  as  the  broadest  roof, 
and  it  will  be  nearly  a perfect  one.  For  the  fact  is,  that  all 
good  Gothic  is  nothing  more  than  the  developement,  in  various 
ways,  and  on  every  conceivable  scale,  of  the  group  formed  by 
th  e pointed  arch  for  the  bearing  line  below,  and  the  gable  for 
the  protecting  line  above  ; and  from  the  huge,  gray,  shaly  slope 
of  the  cathedral  roof,  with  its  elastic  pointed  vaults  beneath, 
to  the  slight  crown-like  points  that  enrich  the 
smallest  niche  of  its  doorway,  one  law  and  one  ex- 
pression will  be  found  in  all.  The  modes  of  support 
and  of  decoration  are  infinitely  various,  but  the 
^real  character  of  the  building,  in  all  good  Gothic, 
depends  upon  the  single  lines  of  the  gable  over  the 
pointed  arch,  Fig.  IX.,  endlessly  rearranged  or  repeated.  The 
larger  woodcut,  Fig.  X.,  represents  three  characteristic  con- 
ditions of  the  treatment  of  the  group  : a , from  a tomb  at  Ve- 
rona (1328)  ; b,  one  of  the  lateral  porches  at  Abbeville  ; c , 
one  of  the  uppermost  points  of  the  great  western  fa§ade  of 
Eouen  Cathedral ; both  these  last  being,  I believe,  early  work 
of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  forms  of  the  pure  early  English 
and  French  Gothic  are  too  well  known  to  need  any  notice  ; 
my  reason  will  appear  presently  for  choosing,  by  way  of  ex- 
ample, these  somewhat  rare  conditions. 

§ lxxxvii.  But,  first,  let  us  try  whether  we  cannot  get  the 
forms  of  the  other  great  architectures  of  the  world  broadly 


A: 

: 

Fig.  IX. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


213 


expressed  by  relations  of  the  same 
lines  into  which  we  have  compress- 
ed the  Gothic.  We  may  easily  do 
this  if  the  reader  will  first  allow 
me  to  remind  him  of  the  true  nat- 
ure of  the  pointed  arch,  as  it  was 
expressed  in  § x.  Chap.  X.  of  the 
first  volume.  It  was  said  there, 
that  it  ought  to  be  called  a “ curved 
gable,”  for,  strictly  speaking,  an 
“arch”  cannot  be  “ pointed.”  The 
so-called  pointed  arch  ought  always 
to  be  considered  as  a gable,  with 
its  sides  curved  in  order  to  enable 
them  to  bear  pressure  from  with- 
out. Thus  considering  it,  there 
are  but  three  ways  in  which  an 
interval  between  piers  can  be 
bridged, — the  three  ways  repre- 
sented by  a,  b,  and  c,  Fig.  XI.,* 
on  page  214, — a,  the  lintel ; b,  the 
round  arch  ; c,  the  gable.  All  the 
architects  in  the  world  will  never 
discover  any  other  ways  of  bridg- 
ing a space  than  these  three  ; they 
may  vary  the  curve  of  the  arch,  or 
curve  the  sides  of  the  gable,  or 
break  them  ; but  in  doing  this  they 
are  merely  modifying  or  subdivid- 
ing, not  adding  to  the  generic 
forms. 

§ Lxxxvm.  Now  there  are  three 
good  architectures  in  the  world, 
and  there  never  can  be  more,  cor- 
respondent to  each  of  these  three 
simple  ways  of  covering  in  a space, 

* Or  by  the  shaded  portions  of  Fig. 
XXIX.  Vol.  I. 


Fig.  X. 


214 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


which  is  the  original  function  of  all  architectures.  And  those 
three  architectures  are  pure  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  sim- 
plicity and  directness  with  which  they  express  the  condition 
of  roofing  on  which  they  are  founded.  They  have  many  in- 
teresting varieties,  according  to  their  scale,  maimer  of  decora* 
tion,  and  character  of  the  nations  by  whom  they  are  practised, 
but  all  their  varieties  are  finally  referable  to  the  three  great 
heads  : — 

a,  Greek  : Architecture  of  the  Lintel. 

b,  Romanesque  : Architecture  of  the  Round  Arch. 

c,  Gothic  : Architecture  of  the  Gable. 

Ffl  ffi}  A 

ABC 

Fig.  XI. 

The  three  names,  Greek,  Romanesque,  and  Gothic,  are  in- 
deed inaccurate  when  used  in  this  vast  sense,  because  they 
imply  national  limitations  ; but  the  three  architectures  may 
nevertheless  not  unfitly  receive  their  names  from  those  nations 
by  whom  they  were  carried  to  the  highest  perfections.  We 
may  thus  briefly  state  their  existing  varieties. 

§ lxxxix.  a.  Greek  : Lintel  Architecture.  The  worst  of  the 
three  ; and,  considered  with  reference  to  stone  construction, 
always  in  some  measure  barbarous.  Its  simplest  type  is 
Stonehenge  ; its  most  refined,  the  Parthenon  ; its  noblest,  the 
Temple  of  Karnak. 

In  the  hands  of  the  Egyptian,  it  is  sublime  ; in  those  of  the 
Greek,  pure  ; in  those  of  the  Roman,  rich ; and  in  those  of  the 
Renaissance  builder,  effeminate. 

b.  Romanesque  : Round-arch  Architecture.  Never  thor- 
oughly developed  until  Christian  times.  It  falls  into  two 
great  branches,  Eastern  and  Western,  or  Byzantine  and  Lom- 
bardic  ; changing  respectively  in  process  of  time,  with  certain 
helps  from  each  other,  into  Arabian  Gothic  and  Teutonic 
Gothic.  Its  most  perfect  Lombardic  type  is  the  Duomo  of 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


215 


Pisa ; its  most  perfect  Byzantine  type  (I  believe),  St.  Mark  s 
at  Venice.  Its  highest  glory  is,  that  it  has  no  corruption.  It 
perishes  in  giving  birth  to  another  architecture  as  noble  as 
itself, 

c.  Gothic  : Architecture  of  the  Gable.  The  daughter  of 
the  Komanesque  ; and,  like  the  Komanesque,  divided  into  two 
great  branches,  Western  and  Eastern,  or  pure  Gothic  and 
Arabian  Gothic  ; of  which  the  latter  is  called  Gothic,  only  be- 
cause it  has  many  Gothic  forms,  pointed  arches,  vaults,  &c.,  - 
but  its  spirit  remains  Byzantine,  more  especially  in  the  form 
of  the  roof-mask,  of  which,  with  respect  to  these  three  great 
families,  we  have  next  to  determine  the  typical  form. 

§ xc.  For,  observe,  the  distinctions  we  have  hitherto  been 
stating,  depend  on  the  form  of  the  stones  first  laid  from  pier 
to  pier ; that  is  to  say,  of  the  simplest  condition  of  roofs 
proper.  Adding  the  relations  of  the  roof-mask  to  these  lines, 
we  shall  have  the  perfect  type  of  form  for  each  school. 

In  the  Greek,  the  Western  Komanesque,  and  Western 
Gothic,  the  roof-mask  is 
the  gable  : in  the  Eastern 
Komanesque,  and  Eastern 
Gothic,  it  is  the  dome  : but 
I have  not  studied  the  roof- 
ing of  either  of  these  last 
two  groups,  and  shall  not 
venture  to  generalize  them 
in  a diagram.  But  the  three  groups,  in  the  hands  of  the  West- 
ern builders,  may  be  thus  simply  represented  : a , Fig.  XU., 
Greek  ; * b,  Western  Komanesque  ; c,  Western,  or  true,  Gothic. 

Now,  observe,  first,  that  the  relation  of  the  roof-mask  to  the 
roof  proper,  in  the  Greek  type,  forms  that  pediment  which 


n 


KN 


a 


b 

Fig.  XII. 


* The  reader  is  not  to  suppose  that  Greek  architecture  had  always,  or 
often,  flat  ceilings,  because  I call  its  lintel  the  roof  proper.  He  must 
remember  I always  use  these  terms  of  the  first  simple  arrangements  of 
materials  that  bridge  a space  ; bringing  in  the  real  roof  afterwards,  if  I 
can.  In  the  case  of  Greek  temples  it  would  be  vain  to  refer  their 
structure  to  the  real  roof,  for  many  were  hypsethral,  and  without  a roof 
at  all.  I am  unfortunately  more  ignorant  of  Egyptian  roofing  than  even 


216 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


gives  its  most  striking  character  to  the  temple,  and  is  the 
principal  recipient  of  its  sculptural  decoration.  The  relation 
of  these  lines,  therefore,  is  just  as  important  in  the  Greek  as 
in  the  Gothic  schools. 

§ xci.  Secondly,  the  reader  must  observe  the  difference  of 
steepness  in  the  Bomanesque  and  Gothic  gables.  This  is  not 
an  unimportant  distinction,  nor  an  undecided  one.  The 
Bomanesque  gable  does  not  pass  gradually  into  the  more  ele- 
vated form  ; there  is  a great  gulf  between  the  two  ; the  whole 
effect  of  all  Southern  architecture  being  dependent  upon  the 
use  of  the  flat  gable,  and  of  all  Northern  upon  that  of  the 
acute.  I need  not  here  dwell  upon  the  difference  between 
the  lines  of  an  Italian  village,  or  the  flat  tops  of  most  Italian 

towers,  and  the  peaked  gables 
and  spires  of  the  North,  attain- 
ing their  most  fantastic  devel- 
opement,  I believe,  in  Belgium : 
but  it  may  be  well  to  state  the 
law  of  separation,  namely,  that 
a Gothic  gable  must  have  all  its 
angles  acute,  and  a Boman- 
esque one  must  have  the  upper 
one  obtuse ; or,  to  give  the 
reader  a simple  practical  rule, 
take  any  gable,  a or  b,  Fig. 
XIII.,  and  strike  a semicircle  on  its  base  ; if  its  top  rises 
above  the  semicircle,  as  at  b , it  is  a Gothic  gable  ; if  it  falls 
beneath  it,  a Bomanesque  one  ; but  the  best  forms  in  each 
group  are  those  which  are  distinctly  steep,  or  distinctly  low. 
In  the  figure  f is,  perhaps,  the  average  of  Bomanesque  slope, 
and  g of  Gothic. 

§ xcii.  But  although  we  do  not  find  a transition  from  one 
school  into  the  other  in  the  slope  of  the  gables,  there  is  often 

of  Arabian,  so  tliat  I cannot  bring  this  school  into  the  diagram  ; but  the 
gable  appears  to  have  been  magnificently  used  for  a bearing  roof.  Vide 
Mr.  Fergusson’s  section  of  the  Pyramid  of  Geezeh,  “ Principles  of 
Beauty  in  Art,”  Plate  I.,  and  his  expressions  of  admiration  of  Egyptian 
roof  masonry,  page  201. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


217 


a confusion  between  the  two  schools  in  the  association  of  the 
gable  with  the  arch  below  it.  It  has  just  been  stated  that  the 
pure  Komanesque  condition  is  the  round  arch  under  the  low 
gable,  a,  Fig.  XIV.,  and  the  pure  Gothic  condition  is  the 
pointed  arch  under  the  high  gable,  b.  But  in  the  passage  from 
one  style  to  the  other,  we  sometimes  find  the  two  conditions 
reversed  ; the  pointed  arch  under  a low  gable,  as  d , or  the 
round  arch  under  a high  gable,  as  c.  The  form  d occurs  in 
the  tombs  of  Verona,  and  c in  the  doors  of  Venice. 


after! 

Fig.  XIV. 


§ xciii.  We  have  thus  determined  the  relation  of  Gothic  to 
the  other  architectures  of  the  world,  as  far  as  regards  the  main 
lines  of  its  construction  ; but  there  is  still  one  word  which 
needs  to  be  added  to  our  definition  of  its  form,  with  respect  to 
a part  of  its  decoration,  which  rises  out  of  that  construction. 
We  have  seen  that  the  first  condition  of  its  form  is,  that  it 
shall  have  pointed  arches.  When  Gothic  is  perfect,  therefore, 
it  will  follow  that  the  pointed  arches  must  be  built  in  the 
strongest  possible  manner. 

Now,  if  the  reader  will  look  back  to  Chapter  XI.  of  Vol.  I., 
he  will  find  the  subject  of  the  masonry  of  the  pointed  arch 
discussed  at  length,  and  the  conclusion  deduced,  that  of  all 
possible  forms  of  the  pointed  arch  (a  certain  weight  of  material 
being  given),  that  generically  represented  at  e,  Fig.  XV.,  is 
the  strongest.  In  fact,  the  reader  can  see  in  a moment  that 
the  weakness  of  the  pointed  arch  is  in  its  flanks,  and  that  by 
merely  thickening  them  gradually  at  this  point  all  chance  of 
fracture  is  removed.  Or,  perhaps,  more  simply  still : — Sup- 


518 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


pose  a gable  built  of  stone,  as  at  a,  and  pressed  upon  from 
without  by  a weight  in  the  direction  of  the  arrow,  clearly  it 

would  be  liable  to  fall  in,  as 
at  6.  To  prevent  this,  we 
make  a pointed  arch  of  it,  as 
at  c ; and  now  it  cannot  fall 
in  wards,  but  if  pressed  upon 
from  above  may  give  way  out- 
wards, as  at  d.  But  at  last 
we  build  as  at  e , and  now  it 
can  neither  fall  out  nor  in. 

§ xciv.  The  forms  of  arch 
thus  obtained,  with  a pointed 
projection  called  a cusp  on 
each  side,  must  for  ever  be  de- 
lightful to  the  human  mind, 
as  being  expressive  of  the 
utmost  strength  and  per- 
manency obtainable  with  a 
given  mass  of  material.  But 
it  was  not  by  any  such  pro- 
cess of  reasoning,  nor  with 
any  reference  to  laws  of  construction,  that  the  cusp  was 
originally  invented.  It  is  merely  the  special  application  to 
the  arch  of  the  great  ornamental  system  of  Foliation  ; or  the 
adaptation  of  the  forms  of  leafage  which  has  been  above  in- 
sisted upon  as  the  principal  characteristic  of  Gothic  Natural* 
ism.  This  love  of  foliage  was  exactly  proportioned,  in  its 
intensity,  to  the  increase  of  strength  in  the  Gothic  spirit : in 
the  Southern  Gothic  it  is  soft  leafage  that  is  most  loved  ; in 
the  Northern  thorny  leafage.  And  if  we  take  up  any  North- 
ern illuminated  manuscript  of  the  great  Gothic  time,  wTe  shall 
find  every  one  of  its  leaf  ornaments  surrounded  by  a thorny 
structure  laid  round  it  in  gold  or  in  color ; sometimes  appar* 
ently  copied  faithfully  from  the  prickly  developement  of  the 
root  of  the  leaf  in  the  thistle,  running  along  the  stems  and 
branches  exactly  as  the  thistle  leaf  does  along  its  own  stem, 
and  with  sharp  spines  proceeding  from  the  points,  as  in  Fig, 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


219 


XVI.  At  other  times,  and  for  the  most  part  in  work  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  the  golden  ground  takes  the  form  of  pure 
and  severe  cusps,  sometimes  enclosing  the  leaves,  sometimes 
filling  up  the  forks  of  the  branches  (as  in  the  example  fig.  1, 
Plate  I.  Vol.  Ill),  passing  imperceptibly  from  the  distinctly 
vegetable  condition  (in  which  it  is  just  as  certainly  representa- 
tive of  the  thorn,  as  other  parts  of  the  design  are  of  the  bud, 
leaf,  and  fruit)  into  the  crests  on  the  necks,  or  the  membra- 
nous sails  of  the  wings,  of  serpents,  dragons,  and  other  gro- 
tesques, as  in  Fig.  XVII.,  and  into  rich  and  vague  fantasies  of 


curvature  ; among  which,  however,  the  pure  cusped  system 
of  the  pointed  arch  is  continually  discernible,  not  acciden- 
tally, but  designedly  indicated,  and  connecting  itself  with  the 
literally  architectural  portions  of  the  design. 

§ xcv.  The  system,  then,  of  what  is  called  Foliation,  whether 
simple,  as  in  the  cusped  arch,  or  complicated,  as  in  tracery, 
rose  out  of  this  love  of  leafage  ; not  that  the  form  of  the  arch 
is  intended  to  imitate  a leaf,  but  to  be  invested  with  the  same 
characters  of  beauty  which  the  designer  had  discovered  in  the  leaf 
Observe,  there  is  a wide  difference  between  these  two  inten- 
tions. The  idea  that  large  Gothic  structure,  in  arches  and 
roofs,  was  intended  to  imitate  vegetation  is,  as  above  noticed, 
untenable  for  an  instant  in  the  front  of  facts.  But  the  Gothic 


Fig.  XVI. 


Fig.  XVII. 


220 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


builder  perceived  that,  in  the  leaves  which  he  copied  for  hia 
minor  decorations,  there  was  a peculiar  beauty,  arising  from 
certain  characters  of  curvature  in  outline,  and  certain  methods 
of  subdivision  and  of  radiation  in  structure.  On  a small  scale, 
in  his  sculptures  and  his  missal-painting,  he  copied  the  leaf 
or  thorn  itself  ; on  a large  scale  he  adopted  from  it  its  ab- 
stract sources  of  beauty,  and  gave  the  same  kinds  of  curva- 
tures and  the  same  species  of  subdivision  to  the  outline  of  his 
arches,  so  far  as  was  consistent  with  their  strength,  never,  in 
any  single  instance,  suggesting  the  resemblance  to  leafage  by 
irregularity  of  outline,  but  keeping  the  structure  perfectly 
simple,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  so  consistent  with  the  best  prin- 
ciples of  masonry,  that  in  the  finest  Gothic  designs  of  arches, 
which  are  always  single  cusped  (the  cinquefoiled  arch  being 
licentious,  though  in  early  work  often  very  lovely),  it  is  liter- 
ally impossible,  without  consulting  the  context  of  the  build- 
ing, to  say  whether  the  cusps  have  been  added  for  the  sake 
of  beauty  or  of  strength  ; nor,  though  in  mediaeval  architecture 
the}7  were,  I believe,  assuredly  first  employed  in  mere  love  of 
their  picturesque  form,  am  I absolutely  certain  that  their 
earliest  invention  was  not  a structural  effort.  For  the  earliest 
cusps  with  which  I am  acquainted  are  those  used  in  the  vaults 
of  the  great  galleries  of  the  Serapeum,  discovered  in  1850  by 
M.  Maniette  at  Memphis,  and  described  by  Colonel  Hamilton 
in  a paper  read  in  February  last  before  the  Royal  Society  of 
Literature.*  The  roofs  of  its  galleries  were  admirably  shown 
in  Colonel  Hamilton’s  drawings  made  to  scale  upon  the  spot, 
and  their  profile  is  a cusped  round  arch,  perfectly  pure  and 
simple ; but  whether  thrown  into  this  form  for  the  sake  of 
strength  or  of  grace,  I am  unable  to  say. 

§ xcvi.  It  is  evident,  however,  that  the  structural  advantage 
of  the  cusp  is  available  only  in  the  case  of  arches  on  a com- 
paratively small  scale.  If  the  arch  becomes  very  large,  the 
projections  under  the  flanks  must  become  too  ponderous  to 
be  secure  ; the  suspended  weight  of  stone  would  be  liable  to 
break  off,  and  such  arches  are  therefore  never  constructed 
with  heavy  cusps,  but  rendered  secure  by  general  mass  of 
* See  ■ Athenaeum,’  March  5th,  1853. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


221 


masonry ,!  and  what  additional  appearance  of  support  may  bo 
thought  necessary  (sometimes  a considerable  degree  of  actual 
support)  is  given  by  means  of  tracery. 

§ xcvn.  Of  what  I stated  in  the  second  chapter  of  the 
“ Seven  Lamps  ” respecting  the  nature  of  tracery,  I need  re- 
peat here  only  this  much,  that  it  began  in  the  use  of  penetra- 
tions through  the  stonework  of  windows  or  walls,  cut  into 
forms  which  looked  like  stars  when  seen  from  within,  and  like 
leaves  when  seen  from  with- 
out : the  name  foil  or  feuille 
being  universally  applied  to 
the  separate  lobes  of  their 
extremities,  and  the  pleas- 
ure received  from  them  be- 
ing the  same  as  that  which 
we  feel  in  the  triple,  quad- 
ruple, or  other  radiated 
leaves  of  vegetation,  joined 
with  the  perception  of  a 
severely  geometrical  order 
and  symmetry.  A few  of 
the  most  common  forms  are 
represented,  unconfused  by 
exterior  mouldings,  in  Fig. 

XVIH,  and  the  best  tra- 
ceries are  nothing  more  than 
close  clusters  of  such  forms, 
with  mouldings  following 

. ..  ° ° Fig.  XVIII. 

their  outlines. 

§ xcviii.  The  term  “foliated,”  therefore,  is  equally  descrip- 
tive of  the  most  perfect  conditions  both  of  the  simple  arch  and 
of  the  traceries  by  which,  in  later  Gothic,  it  is  filled  ; and  this 
foliation  is  an  essential  character  of  the  style.  No  Gothic  is 
either  good  or  characteristic  which  is  not  foliated  either  in  its 
arches  or  apertures.  Sometimes  the  bearing  arches  are  foliated, 
and  the  ornamentation  above  composed  of  figure  sculpture  ; 
sometimes  the  bearing  arches  are  plain,  and  the  ornamentation 
above  them  is  composed  of  foliated  apertures.  But  the  ele- 


222 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ment  of  foliation  must  enter  somewhere,  or  the  style  is  imper« 
feet.  And  our  final  definition  of  Gothic  will,  therefore,  stand 
thus  : — 

“ Foliated  Architecture,  which  uses  the  pointed  arch  for 
the  roof  proper,  and  the  gable  for  the  roof-mask.” 

§ xeix.  And  now  there  is  but  one  point  more  to  be  exam- 
ined, and  we  have  done. 

Foliation,  while  it  is  the  most  distinctive  and  peculiar,  is 
also  the  easiest  method  of  decoration  which  Gothic  architect- 


ure possesses  ; and,  although  in  the  disposition  of  the  propor- 
tions and  forms  of  foils,  the  most  noble  imagination  may 
be  shown,  yet  a builder  without  imagination  at  all,  or  any 

other  faculty  of  design, 
can  produce  some  effect 
upon  the  mass  of  his  work 
by  merely  covering  it  with 
foolish  foliation.  Throw 
any  number  of  crossing 
lines  together  at  random, 
as  in  Fig.  XIX.,  and  fill 
their  squares  and  oblong 
openings  with  quatrefoils 
and  cinquefoils,  and  you 
will  immediately  have 
what  will  stand,  with  most 
people,  for  very  satisfac- 
tory Gothic.  The  slight- 
est possible  acquaintance 
with  existing  forms  will  enable  any  architect  to  vary  his  patterns 
of  foliation  with  as  much  ease  as  he  would  those  of  a kaleido- 
scope, and  to  produce  a building  which  the  present  European 
public  wTill  think  magnificent,  though  there  may  not  be,  from 
foundation  to  coping,  one  ray  of  invention,  or  any  other  intel- 
lectual merit,  in  the  whole  mass  of  it.  But  floral  decoration,  and 
the  disposition  of  mouldings,  require  some  skill  and  thought  *, 
and,  if  they  are  to  be  agreeable  at  all,  must  be  verily  invented,  oi 
accurately  copied.  They  cannot  be  drawn  altogether  at  ran- 
dom, without  becoming  so  commonplace  as  to  involve  detec* 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC . 


223 


tion  ; and  although,  as  I have  just  said,  the  noblest  imagina- 
tion may  be  shown  in  the  dispositions  of  traceries,  there  is  far 
more  room  for  its  play  and  power  when  those  traceries  are 
associated  with  floral  or  animal  ornament ; and  it  is  probable, 
d priori , that,  wherever  true  invention  exists,  such  ornament 
will  be  employed  in  profusion, 

§ c.  Now,  all  Gothic  may  be  divided  into  two  vast  schools,  one 
early,  the  other  late  ; * of  which  the  former,  noble,  inventive, 
and  progressive,  uses  the  element  of  foliation  moderately, 
that  of  floral  and  figure  sculpture  decoration  profusely  ; the 
Satter,  ignoble,  uninventive,  and  declining,  uses  foliation  im- 
moderately, floral  and  figure  sculpture  subordinate^.  The 
two  schools  touch  each  other  at  that  instant  of  momentous 
change,  dwelt  upon  in  the  “ Seven  Lamps,”  chap,  ii.,  a period 
later  or  earlier  in  different  districts,  but  which  may  be  broadly 
stated  as  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  ; both  styles 
being,  of  course,  in  their  highest  excellence  at  the  moment 
when  they  meet,  the  one  ascending  to  the  point  of  junction, 
the  one  declining  from  it,  but,  at  first,  not  in  any  marked 
degree,  and  only  showing  the  characters  which  justify  its 
being  above  called,  generically,  ignoble,  as  its  declension 
reaches  steeper  slope. 

§ ci.  Of  these  two  great  schools,  the  first  uses  foliation  only 
in  large  and  simple  masses,  and  covers  the  minor  members, 
cusps,  &c.,  of  that  foliation,  with  various  sculpture.  The 
latter  decorates  foliation  itself  with  minor  foliation,  and  breaks 
its  traceries  into  endless  and  lace-like  subdivision  of  tracery. 

A few  instances  will  explain  the  difference  clearly.  Fig.  2, 
Plate  XII.,  represents  half  of  an  eight-foiled  aperture  from 
Salisbury  ; where  the  element  of  foliation  is  employed  in  the 
larger  disposition  of  the  starry  form  ; but  in  the  decoration 
of  the  cusp  it  has  entirely  disappeared,  and  the  ornament  is 
floral. 

But  in  fig.  1,  which  is  part  of  a fringe  round  one  of  the 
later  windows  in  Rouen  Cathedral,  the  foliation  is  first  carried 

* Late,  and  chiefly  confined  to  Northern  countries,  so  that  the  two 
schools  may  be  opposed  either  as  Early  and  Late  Gothic,  or  (in  the 
fourteenth  century)  as  Southern  and  Northern  Gothic. 


224 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


boldly  round  the  arch,  and  then  each  cusp  of  it  divided  into 
other  forms  of  foliation.  The  two  larger  canopies  of  niches 
below,  figs.  5 and  6,  are  respectively  those  seen  at  the  flanks 
of  the  two  uppermost  examples  of  gabled  Gothic  in  Fig.  X., 
p.  213.  Those  examples  were  there  chosen  in  order  also  to 
illustrate  the  distinction  in  the  character  of  ornamentation 
which  we  are  at  present  examining  ; and  if  the  reader  will 
look  back  to  them,  and  compare  their  methods  of  treatment, 
he  will  at  once  be  enabled  to  fix  that  distinction  clearly  in  his 
mind.  He  wrill  observe  that  in  the  uppermost  the  element  of 
foliation  is  scrupulously  confined  to  the  bearing  arches  of  the 
gable,  and  of  the  lateral  niches,  so  that,  on  any  given  side  of 
the  monument,  only  three  foliated  arches  are  discernible. 
All  the  rest  of  the  ornamentation  is  “ bossy  sculpture/'  set  on 
the  broad  marble  surface.  On  the  point  of  the  gable  are  set 
the  shield  and  dog-crest  of  the  Scalas,  with  its  bronze  wings, 
as  of  a dragon,  thrown  out  from  it  on  either  side  ; below,  an 
admirably  sculptured  oak-tree  fills  the  centre  of  the  field  ; 
beneath  it  is  the  death  of  Abel,  Abel  lying  dead  upon  his  face 
on  one  side,  Cain  opposite,  looking  up  to  heaven  in  terror  : 
the  border  of  the  arch  is  formed  of  various  leafage,  alternat- 
ing with  the  scala  shield  ; and  the  cusps  are  each  filled  by  one 
flower,  and  two  broad  flowing  leaves.  The  whole  is  exquis- 
itely relieved  by  color  ; the  ground  being  of  pale  red  Yerona 
marble,  and  the  statues  and  foliage  of  white  Carrara  marble, 
inlaid. 

§ cii.  The  figure  below  it,  6,  represents  the  southern  lateral 
door  of  the  principal  church  in  Abbeville  : the  smallness  of 
the  scale  compelled  me  to  make  it  somewhat  heavier  in  the 
lines  of  its  traceries  than  it  is  in  reality,  but  the  door  itself  is 
one  of  the  most  exquisite  pieces  of  flamboyant  Gothic  in  the 
world  ; and  it  is  interesting  to  see  the  shield  introduced  here, 
at  the  point  of  the  gable,  in  exactly  the  same  manner  as  in  the 
upper  example,  and  with  precisely  the  same  purpose, — to  stay 
the  eye  in  its  ascent,  and  to  keep  it  from  being  offended  by 
the  sharp  point  of  the  gable,  the  reversed  angle  of  the  shield 
being  so  energetic  as  completely  to  balance  the  upward  ten- 
dency of  the  great  convergent  lines.  It  will  be  seen,  however 


Plate  XII. — Linear  and  Surface  Gothic. 


H~\ 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


225 


as  this  example  is  studied,  that  its  other  decorations  are  alto- 
gether different  from  those  of  the  Veronese  tomb  ; that,  here, 
the  whole  effect  is  dependent  on  mere  multiplications  of 
similar  lines  of  tracery,  sculpture  being  hardly  introduced  ex- 
cept in  the  seated  statue  under  the  central  niche,  and,  formerly, 
in  groups  filling  the  shadowy  hollows  under  the  small  niches 
in  the  archivolt,  but  broken  away  in  the  Revolution.  And  if 
now  we  turn  to  Plate  XII.,  just  passed,  and  examine  the  heads 
of  the  two  lateral  niches  there  given  from  each  of  these  monu- 
ments on  a larger  scale,  the  contrast  will  be  yet  more  apparent. 
The  one  from  Abbeville  (fig.  5),  though  it  contains  much 
floral  work  of  the  crisp  Northern  kind  in  its  finial  and  crock- 
ets, yet  depends  for  all  its  effect  on  the  various  patterns  of 
foliation  with  which  its  spaces  are  filled  ; and  it  is  so  cut 
through  and  through  that  it  is  hardly  stronger  than  a piece 
of  lace  : whereas  the  pinnacle  from  Verona  depends  for  its 
effect  on  one  broad  mass  of  shadow,  boldly  shaped  into  the 
trefoil  in  its  bearing  arch  ; and  there  is  no  other  trefoil  on  that 
side  of  the  niche.  All  the  rest  of  its  decoration  is  floral,  or 
by  almonds  and  bosses  ; and  its  surface  of  stone  is  unpierced, 
and  kept  in  broad  light,  and  the  mass  of  it  thick  and  strong 
enough  to  stand  for  as  many  more  centuries  as  it  has  already 
stood,  scatheless,  in  the  open  street  of  Verona.  The  figures  3 
and  4,  above  each  niche,  show  how  the  same  principles  are 
carried  out  into  the  smallest  details  of  the  two  edifices,  3 be- 
ing the  moulding  which  borders  the  gable  at  Abbeville,  and  4, 
that  in  the  same  position  at  Verona  ; and  as  thus  in  all  cases 
the  distinction  in  their  treatment  remains  the  same,  the  one 
attracting  the  eye  to  broad  sculptured  surfaces , the  other  to 
involutions  of  intricate  lines , I shall  hereafter  characterize  the 
two  schools,  whenever  I have  occasion  to  refer  to  them,  the 
one  as  Surface- Gothic,  the  other  as  Linear-Gothic. 

§ cm.  Now  observe  : it  is  not,  at  present,  the  question, 
whether  the  form  of  the  Veronese  niche,  and  the  design  of  its 
flower-work,  be  as  good  as  they  might  have  been  ; but  simply, 
which  of  the  two  architectural  principles  is  the  greater  and 
better.  And  this  we  cannot  hesitate  for  an  instant  in  decid- 
ing. The  Veronese  Gothic  is  strong  in  its  masonry,  simple 
Vol.  II.— 15 


226 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


in  its  masses,  but  perpetual  in  its  variety.  The  late  French 
Gothic  is  weak  in  masonry,  broken  in  mass,  and  repeats  the 
same  idea  continually.  It  is  very  beautiful,  but  the  Italian 
Gothic  is  the  nobler  style. 

§ civ.  Yet,  in  saying*  that  the  French  Gothic  repeats  one 
idea,  I mean  merely  that  it  depends  too  much  upon  the  folia- 
tion of  its  traceries.  The  disposition  of  the  traceries  them- 
selves is  endlessly  varied  and  inventive  ; and  indeed,  the  mind 
of  the  French  workman  was,  perhaps,  even  richer  in  fancy 
than  that  of  the  Italian,  only  he  had  been  taught  a less  noble 
style.  This  is  especially  to  be  remembered  with  respect  to  the 
subordination  of  figure  sculpture  above  noticed  as  character- 
istic of  the  later  Gothic. 

It  is  not  that  such  sculpture  is  wanting ; on  the  contrary, 
it  is  often  worked  into  richer  groups,  and  carried  out  with  a 
perfection  of  execution,  far  greater  than  those  which  adorn 
the  earlier  buildings  : but,  in  the  early  work,  it  is  vigorous, 
prominent,  and  essential  to  the  beauty  of  the  whole  ; in  the 
late  work  it  is  enfeebled,  and  shrouded  in  the  veil  of  tracery, 
from  which  it  may  often  be  removed  with  little  harm  to  the 
general  effect.* 

§ cv.  Now  the  reader  may  rest  assured  that  no  principle  of 
art  is  more  absolute  than  this, — that  a composition  from 
which  anything  can  be  removed  without  doing  mischief  is 
always  so  far  forth  inferior.  On  this  ground,  therefore,  if  on 
no  other,  there  can  be  no  question,  for  a moment,  which  of 
the  two  schools  is  the  greater ; although  there  are  many  most 
noble  works  in  the  French  traceried  Gothic,  having  a sublim- 
ity of  their  own  dependent  on  their  extreme  richness  and 
grace  of  line,  and  for  which  we  may  be  most  grateful  to  their 
builders.  And,  indeed,  the  superiority  of  the  Surface-Gothic 
cannot  be  completely  felt,  until  we  compare  it  with  the  more 

* In  many  of  the  best  French  Gothic  churches,  the  groups  of  figures 
have  been  all  broken  away  at  the  Revolution,  without  much  harm  to  the 
picturesqueness,  though  with  grievous  loss  to  the  historical  value  of  the 
architecture  : whereas,  if  from  the  niche  at  Verona  we  were  to  remove 
its  floral  ornaments,  and  the  statue  beneath  it,  nothing  would  remain 
Yut  a rude  square  trefoiled  shell,  utterly  valueless,  or  even  ugly. 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


227 


degraded  Linear  schools,  as,  for  instance,  with  our  own  Eng- 
lish Perpendicular.  The  ornaments  of  the  Veronese  niche, 
which  we  have  used  for  our  example,  are  by  no  means  among 
the  best  of  their  school,  yet  they  will  serve  our  purpose  for 
such  a comparison.  That  of  its  pinnacle  is  composed  of  a 
# single  upright  flowering  plant,  of  which  the  stem  shoots  up 
through  the  centres  of  the  leaves,  and  bears  a pendent  blos- 
som, somewhat  like  that  of  the  imperial 
lily.  The  leaves  are  thrown  back  from  the 
stem  with  singular  grace  and  freedom,  and 
foreshortened,  as  if  by  a skilful  painter,  in 
the  shallow  marble  relief.  Their  arrange- 
ment is  roughly  shown  in  the  little  wood- 
cut  at  the  side  (Fig.  XX. ) ; and  if  the 
reader  will  simply  try  the  experiment  for 
himself, — first, of  covering  a piece  of  paper 
with  crossed  lines,  as  if  for  accounts,  and 
filling  all  the  interstices, with  any  foliation 
that  comes  into  his  head,  as  in  Figure 
XIX.  above  ; and  then,  of  trying  to  fill  the 
point  of  a gable  with  a piece  of  leafage 
like  that  in  Figure  XX.,  putting  the 
figure  itself  aside, — he  will  presently  find 
that  more  thought  and  invention  are  re- 
quired to  design  this  single  minute  pin- 
nacle, than  to  cover  acres  of  ground  with 
English  perpendicular. 

§ cvi.  We  have  now,  I believe,  obtained 
a sufficiently  accurate  knowledge  both 
of  the  spirit  and  form  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture ; but  it  may,  perhaps,  be  useful  to  the  general  reader, 
if,  in  conclusion,  I set  down  a few  plain  and  practical  rules 
for  determining,  in  every  instance,  whether  a given  building 
be  good  Gothic  or  not,  and,  if  not  Gothic,  whether  its  archi- 
tecture is  of  a kind  which  will  probably  reward  the  pains  of 
careful  examination. 

§ cvn.  First.  Look  if  the  roof  rises  in  a steep  gable,  high 
above  the  walls.  If  it  does  not  do  this,  there  is  something 


228 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


wrong ; the  building  is  not  quite  pure  Gothic,  or  has  been 
altered. 

§ cviii.  Secondly.  Look  if  the  principal  windows  and  doors 
have  pointed  arches  with  gables  over  them.  If  not  pointed 
arches,  the  building  is  not  Gothic  ; if  they  have  not  any  gables 
over  them,  it  is  either  not  pure,  or  not  first-rate. 

If,  however,  it  has  the  steep  roof,  the  pointed  arch,  and 
gable  all  united,  it  is  nearly  certain  to  be  a Gothic  building  of 
a very  fine  time. 

§ cix.  Thirdly.  Look  if  the  arches  are  cusped,  or  apertures 
foliated.  If  the  building  has  met  the  first  two  conditions,  it 
is  sure  to  be  foliated  somewhere  ; but,  if  not  everywhere,  the 
parts  which  are  unfoliated  are  imperfect,  unless  they  are  large 
bearing  arches,  or  small  and  sharp  arches  in  groups,  forming 
a kind  of  foliation  by  their  own  multiplicity,  and  relieved  by 
sculpture  and  rich  mouldings.  The  upper  windows,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  east  end  of  Westminster  Abbey  are  imperfect 
for  want  of  foliation.  If  there  be  no  foliation  anywhere,  the 
building  is  assuredly  imperfect  Gothic. 

§ cx.  Fourthly.  If  the  building  meets  all  the  first  three 
conditions,  look  if  its  arches  in  general,  whether  of  windows 
and  doors,  or  of  minor  ornamentation,  are  carried  on  true 
shafts  icith  bases  and  capitals . If  they  are,  then  the  building 
is  assuredly  of  the  finest  Gothic  style.  It  may  still,  perhaps, 
be  an  imitation,  a feeble  copy,  or  a bad  example  of  a noble 
style  ; but  the  manner  of  it,  having  met  all  these  four  condi- 
tions, is  assuredly  first-rate. 

If  its  apertures  have  not  shafts  and  capitals,  look  if  they 
are  plain  openings  in  the  walls,  studiously  simple,  and  un- 
moulded at  the  sides  ; as,  for  instance,  the  arch  in  Plate  XIX., 
Yol.  I.  If  so,  the  building  may  still  be  of  the  finest  Gothic, 
adapted  to  some  domestic  or  military  service.  But  if  the 
sides  of  the  window  be  moulded,  and  yet  there  are  no  capitals 
at  the  spring  of  the  arch,  it  is  assuredly  of  an  inferior  school. 

This  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  determine  whether  the  build- 
ing be  of  a fine  Gothic  style.  The  next  tests  to  be  applied 
are  in  order  to  discover  whether  it  be  good  architecture  or 
not : for  it  may  be  very  impure  Gothic,  and  yet  very  noble 


THE  NATURE  OF  GOTHIC. 


229 


architecture  ; or  it  may  be  very  pure  Gothic,  and  yet,  if  a 
copy,  or  originally  raised  by  an  ungifted  builder,  very  bad 
architecture. 

If  it  belong  to  any  of  the  great  schools  of  color,  its  criticism 
becomes  as  complicated,  and  needs  as  much  care,  as  that  of  a 
piece  of  music,  and  no  general  rules  for  it  can  be  given  ; but 
if  not — 

§ cxi.  First.  See  if  it  looks  as  if  it  had  been  built  by 
strong  men  ; if  it  has  the  sort  of  roughness,  and  largeness,  and 
nonchalance,  mixed  in  places  with  the  exquisite  tenderness 
which  seems  always  to  be  the  sign-manual  of  the  broad  vis- 
ion, and  massy  power  of  men  who  can  see  past  the  work  they 
are  doing,  and  betray  here  and  there  something  like  disdain 
for  it.  If  the  building  has  this  character,  it  is  much  already 
in  its  favor  ; it  will  go  hard  but  it  proves  a noble  one.  If  it 
has  not  this,  but  is  altogether  accurate,  minute,  and  scrupu- 
lous in  its  workmanship,  it  must  belong  to  either  the  very 
best  or  the  very  worst  of  schools  : the  very  best,  in  which  ex- 
quisite design  is  wrought  out  with  untiring  and  conscientious 
care,  as  in  the  Giottesque  Gothic ; or  the  very  worst,  in  which 
mechanism  has  taken  the  place  of  design.  It  is  more  likely, 
in  general,  that  it  should  belong  to  the  worst  than  the  best  : 
so  that,  on  the  whole,  very  accurate  workmanship  is  to  be  es- 
teemed a bad  sign  ; and  if  there  is  nothing  remarkable  about 
the  building  but  its  precision,  it  may  be  passed  at  once  with 
contempt. 

§ cxii.  Secondly.  Observe  if  it  be  irregular,  its  different 
parts  fitting  themselves  to  different  purposes,  no  one  caring 
what  becomes  of  them,  so  that  they  do  their  work.  If  one 
part  always  answers  accurately  to  another  part,  it  is  sure  to 
be  a bad  building  ; and  the  greater  and  more  conspicuous  the 
irregularities,  the  greater  the  chances  are  that  it  is  a good  one. 
For  instance,  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  of  which  a rough  woodcut 
is  given  in  Chap.  VIII.,  the  general  idea  is  sternly  symmetri- 
cal ; but  two  windows  are  lower  than  the  rest  of  the  six ; and 
if  the  reader  will  count  the  arches  of  the  small  arcade  as  far 
as  to  the  great  balcony,  he  will  find  it  is  not  in  the  centre,  but 
set  to  the  right-hand  side  by  the  whole  width  of  one  of  those 


230 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


arches.  We  may  be  pretty  sure  that  the  building  is  a good 
one  ; none  but  a master  of  his  craft  would  have  ventured  to 
do  this. 

§ cxiii.  Thirdly.  Observe  if  all  the  traceries,  capitals,  and 
other  ornaments  are  of  perpetually  varied  design.  If  not,  the 
work  is  assuredly  bad. 

§ cxiv.  Lastly.  Read  the  sculpture.  Preparatory  to  read- 
ing it,  you  will  have  to  discover  whether  it  is  legible  (and,  if 
legible,  it  is  nearly  certain  to  be  worth  reading).  On  a good 
building,  the  sculpture  is  always  so  set,  and  on  such  a scale, 
that  at  the  ordinary  distance  from  which  the  edifice  is  seen, 
the  sculpture  shall  be  thoroughly  intelligible  and  interesting. 
In  order  to  accomplish  this,  the  uppermost  statues  will  be  ten 
or  twelve  feet  high,  and  the  upper  ornamentation  will  be  co- 
lossal, increasing  in  fineness  as  it  descends,  till  on  the  founda- 
tion it  will  often  be  wrought  as  if  for  a precious  cabinet  in  a 
king’s  chamber  ; but  the  spectator  will  not  notice  that  the 
upper  sculptures  are  colossal.  He  will  merely  feel  that  he 
can  see  them  plainly,  and  make  them  all  out  at  his  ease. 

And,  having  ascertained  this,  let  him  set  himself  to  read 
them.  Thenceforward  the  criticism  of  the  building  is  to  be 
conducted  precisely  on  the  same  principles  as  that  of  a book  ; 
and  it  must  depend  on  the  knowledge,  feeling,  and  not  a lit- 
tle on  the  industry  and  perseverance  of  the  reader,  whether, 
even  in  the  case  of  the  best  works,  he  either  perceive  them  to 
be  great,  or  feel  them  to  be  entertaining. 


CHAPTER  YH. 

GOTHIC  PALACES. 

§ i.  The  buildings  out  of  the  remnants  of  which  we  have 
endeavored  to  recover  some  conception  of  the  appearance  of 
Venice  during  the  Byzantine  period,  contribute  hardly  any- 
thing at  this  day  to  the  effect  of  the  streets  of  this  city. 
They  are  too  few  and  too  much  defaced  to  attract  the  eye  or 
influence  the  feelings.  The  charm  which  Venice  still  posses- 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


231 


ges,  and  which  for  the  last  fifty  years  has  rendered  it  the  fa- 
vorite haunt  of  all  the  painters  of  picturesque  subject,  is 
owing  to  the  effect  of  the  palaces  belonging  to  the  period  we 
have  now  to  examine,  mingled  with  those  of  the  Renais- 
sance. 

This  effect  is  produced  in  two  different  ways.  The  Renais- 
sance palaces  are  not  more  picturesque  in  themselves  than 
the  club-houses  of  Pall  Mall ; but  they  become  delightful  by 
the  contrast  of  their  severity  and  refinement  with  the  rich  and 
rude  confusion  of  the  sea  life  beneath  them,  and  of  their 
white  and  solid  masonry  with  the  green  waves.  Remove  from 
beneath  them  the  orange  sails  of  the  fishing  boats,  the  black 
gliding  of  the  gondolas,  the  cumbered  decks  and  rough  crews 
of  the  barges  of  traffic,  and  the  fretfulness  of  the  green 
water  along  their  foundations,  and  the  Renaissance  palaces 
possess  no  more  interest  than  those  of  London  or  Paris.  But 
the  Gothic  palaces  are  picturesque  in  themselves,  and  wield 
over  us  an  independent  power.  Sea  and  sky,  and  every  other 
accessory  might  be  taken  away  from  them,  and  still  they 
would  be  beautiful  and  strange.  They  are  not  less  striking 
in  the  loneliest  streets  of  Padua  and  Vicenza  (where  many 
were  built  during  the  period  of  the  Venetian  authority  in 
those  cities)  than  in  the  most  crowded  thoroughfares  of  Ven- 
ice itself ; and  if  they  could  be  transported  into  the  midst  of 
London,  they  would  still  not  altogether  lose  their  power  over 
the  feelings. 

§ ii.  The  best  proof  of  this  is  in  the  perpetual  attractive- 
ness of  all  pictures,  however  poor  in  skill,  which  have  taken 
for  their  subject  the  principal  of  these  Gothic  buildings,  the 
Ducal  Palace.  In  spite  of  all  architectural  theories  and  teach- 
ings, the  paintings  of  this  building  are  always  felt  to  be  de- 
lightful ; we  cannot  be  wearied  by  them,  though  often  sorely 
tried  ; but  we  are  not  put  to  the  same  trial  in  the  case  of  the 
palaces  of  the  Renaissance.  They  are  never  drawn  singly,  or 
as  the  principal  subject,  nor  can  they  be.  The  building  which 
faces  the  Ducal  Palace  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Piazzetta  is 
celebrated  among  architects,  but  it  is  not  familiar  to  our  eyes  ; 
it  is  painted  only  incidentally,  for  the  completion,  not  the 


232 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE \ 


subject,  of  a Venetian  scene  ; and  even  the  Renaissance  ar- 
cades  of  St.  Mark’s  Place,  though  frequently  painted,  are  al- 
ways treated  as  a mere  avenue  to  its  Byzantine  church  and 
colossal  tower.  And  the  Ducal  Palace  itself  owes  the  peculiar 
charm  which  we  have  hitherto  felt,  not  so  much  to  its  greater 
size  as  compared  with  other  Gothic  buildings,  or  nobler  de- 
sign (for  it  never  yet  has  been  rightly  drawn),  as  to  its  com- 
parative isolation.  The  other  Gothic  structures  are  as  much 
injured  by  the  continual  juxtaposition  of  the  Renaissance 
palaces,  as  the  latter  are  aided  by  it ; they  exhaust  their  own 
life  by  breathing  it  into  the  Renaissance  coldness  : but  the 
Ducal  Palace  stands  comparatively  alone,  and  fully  expresses 
the  Gothic  power. 

§ hi.  And  it  is  just  that  it  should  be  so  seen,  for  it  is  the 
original  of  nearly  all  the  rest.  It  is  not  the  elaborate  and 
more  studied  developement  of  a national  style,  but  the  great 
and  sudden  invention  of  one  man,  instantly  forming  a national 
style,  and  becoming  the  model  for  the  imitation  of  every 
architect  in  Venice  for  upwards  of  a century.  It  was  the  de- 
termination of  this  one  fact  which  occupied  me  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  I spent  in  Venice.  It  had  always  appeared 
to  me  most  strange  that  there  should  be  in  no  part  of  the 
city  any  incipient  or  imperfect  types  of  the  form  of  the  Ducal 
Palace  ; it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  so  mighty  a building 
had  been  the  conception  of  one  man,  not  only  in  disposition 
and  detail,  but  in  style  ; and  yet  impossible,  had  it  been 
otherwise,  but  that  some  early  examples  of  approximate 
Gothic  form  must  exist.  There  is  not  one.  The  palaces 
built  between  the  final  cessation  of  the  Byzantine  style, 
about  1300,  and  the  date  of  the  Ducal  Palace  (1320-1350), 
are  all  completely  distinct  in  character,  so  distinct  that  I 
at  first  intended  the  account  of  them  to  form  a separate 
section  of  this  volume  ; and  there  is  literally  no  transitional 
form  between  them  and  the  perfection  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Every  Gothic  building  in  Venice  which  resembles  the  latter  is 
a copy  of  it.  I do  not  mean  that  there  was  no  Gothic  in 
Venice  before  the  Ducal  Palace,  but  that  the  mode  of  its  ap- 
plication to  domestic  architecture  had  not  been  determined. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


233 


The  real  root  of  the  Ducal  Palace  is  the  apse  of  the  church  of 
the  Frari.  The  traceries  of  that  apse,  though  earlier  and 
ruder  in  workmanship,  are  nearly  the  same  in  mouldings,  and 
precisely  the  same  in  treatment  (especially  in  the  placing  of 
the  lions’  heads),  as  those  of  the  great  Ducal  Arcade  ; and 
the  originality  of  thought  in  the  architect  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
consists  in  his  having  adapted  those  traceries,  in  a more 
highly  developed  and  finished  form,  to  civil  uses.  In  the 
apse  of  the  church  they  form  narrow  and  tall  window  lights, 
somewhat  more  massive  than  those  of  Northern  Gothic,  but 
similar  in  application  : the  thing  to  be  done  was  to  adapt 
these  traceries  to  the  forms  of  domestic  building  necessitated 
by  national  usage.  The  early  palaces  consisted,  as  we  have 
seen,  of  arcades  sustaining  walls  faced  with  marble,  rather 
broad  and  long  than  elevated.  This  form  was  kept  for  the 
Ducal  Palace  ; but  instead  of  round  arches  from  shaft  to  shaft, 
the  Frari  traceries  were  substituted,  with  two  essential  modi- 
fications. Besides  being 
enormously  increased  in 
scale  and  thickness,  that 
they  might  better  bear  the 
superincumbent  weight,  the 
quatrefoil,  which  in  the 
Frari  windows  is  above  the 
arch,  as  at  a , Fig.  XXI.,  was, 
in  the  Ducal  Palace,  put  be- 
tween the  arches,  as  at  b ; 
the  main  reason  for  this  alteration  being  that  the  bearing- 
power  of  the  arches,  which  was  now  to  be  trusted  with  the 
weight  of  a wall  forty  feet  high,*  was  thus  thrown  between  the 
quatrefoils,  instead  of  under  them,  and  thereby  applied  at  far 
better  advantage.  And,  in  the  second  place,  the  joints  of  the 
masonry  were  changed.  In  the  Frari  (as  often  also  in  St.  John 
and  St.  Paul’s)  the  tracery  is  formed  of  two  simple  cross  bars  or 
slabs  of  stone,  pierced  into  the  requisite  forms,  and  separated 

* 38  ft.  2 in.,  without  its  cornice,  which  is  10  inches  deep,  and  sus- 
tains pinnacles  of  stone  7 feet  high.  I was  enabled  to  get  the  measures 
by  a scaffolding  erected  in  1851  to  repair  the  front. 


a h 

Fig.  XXI. 


234 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


by  a horizontal  joint,  jnst  on  a level  with  the  lowest  cusp  of  the 
quatrefoils,  as  seen  in  Fig.  XXI.,  a . But  at  the  Ducal  Palace 
the  horizontal  joint  is  in  the  centre  of  the 
quatrefoils,  and  two  others  are  introduced 
beneath  it  at  right  angles  to  the  run  of  the 
mouldings,  as  seen  in  Fig.  XXI.,  b*  The 
Ducal  Palace  builder  was  sternly  resolute 
in  carrying  out  this  rule  of  masonry.  In 
the  traceries  of  the  large  upper  windows, 
where  the  cusps  are  cut  through  as  in  the 
quatrefoil  Fig.  XXII.,  the  lower  cusp  is  left 
partly  solid,  as  at  a,  merely  that  the  joint  a 
b may  have  its  right  place  and  direction. 

§ iv.  The  ascertaining  the  formation  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
traceries  from  those  of  the  Frari,  and  its  priority  to  all  other 
buildings  which  resemble  it  in  Venice,  rewarded  me  for  a 
great  deal  of  uninteresting  labor  in  the  examination  of  mould- 
ings and  other  minor  features  of  the  Gothic  palaces,  in  which 
alone  the  internal  evidence  of  their  date  was  to  be  discovered, 
there  being  no  historical  records  whatever  respecting  them. 
But  the  accumulation  of  details  on  which  the  complete  proof 
of  the  fact  depends,  could  not  either  be  brought  within  the 
compass  of  this  volume,  or  be  made  in  anywise  interesting  to 
the  general  reader.  I shall  therefore,  without  involving  my- 
self in  any  discussion,  give  a brief  account  of  the  develope- 
ment  of  Gothic  design  in  Venice,  as  I believe  it  to  have  taken 
place.  I shall  possibly  be  able  at  some  future  period  so  to 
compress  the  evidence  on  which  my  conviction  rests,  as  to 
render  it  intelligible  to  the  public,  while,  in  the  meantime, 
some  of  the  more  essential  points  of  it  are  thrown  together  in 
the  Appendix,  and  in  the  history  of  the  Ducal  Palace  given  in 
the  next  chapter. 

§ v.  According,  then,  to  the  statement  just  made,  the 
Gothic  architecture  of  Venice  is  divided  into  two  great  periods  : 
one,  in  which,  while  various  irregular  Gothic  tendencies  are 

*1  believe  the  necessary  upper  joint  is  vertical,  through  the  upper* 
most  lobe  of  the  quatrefoil,  as  in  the  figure  ; but  I have  lost  my  memo- 
randum of  this  joint. 


GOTHIC  PALACES: 


235 


exhibited,  no  consistent  type  of  domestic  building  was  de- 
veloped ; the  other,  in  which  a formed  and  consistent  school 
of  domestic  architecture  resulted  from  the  direct  imitation  of 
the  great  design  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  We  must  deal  with 
these  two  periods  separately  ; the  first  of  them  being  that 
which  has  been  often  above  alluded  to,  under  the  name  of  the 
transitional  period. 

We  shall  consider  in  succession  the  general  form,  the  win- 
dows, doors,  balconies,  and  parapets,  of  the  Gothic  palaces 
belonging  to  each  of  these  periods. 

§ vi.  First.  General  Form. 

We  have  seen  that  the  wrecks  of  the  Byzantine  palaces  con- 
sisted merely  of  upper  and  lower  arcades  surrounding  cortiles  ; 
the  disposition  of  the  interiors  being  now  entirely  changed, 
and  their  original  condition  untraceable.  The  entrances  to 
these  early  buildings  are,  for  the  most  part,  merely  large  cir- 
cular arches,  the  central  features  of  their  continuous  arcades : 
they  do  not  present  us  with  definitely  separated  windows  and 
doors. 

But  a great  change  takes  place  in  the  Gothic  period. 
These  long  arcades  break,  as  it  were,  into  pieces,  and  coagu- 
late into  central  and  lateral  windows,  and  small  arched  doors, 
pierced  in  great  surfaces  of  brick  wall.  The  sea  story  of  a 
Byzantine  palace  consists  of  seven,  nine,  or  more  arches  in  a 
continuous  line  ; but  the  sea  story  of  a Gothic  palace  consists 
of  a door  and  one  or  two  windows  on  each  side,  as  in  a mod- 
ern house.  The  first  story  of  a Byzantine  palace  consists  of, 
perhaps,  eighteen  or  twenty  arches,  reaching  from  one  side  of 
the  house  to  the  other  ; the  first  story  of  a Gothic  palace  con- 
sists of  a window  of  four  or  five  lights  in  the  centre,  and  one 
or  two  single  windows  on  each  side.  The  germ,  however,  of 
the  Gothic  arrangement  is  already  found  in  the  Byzantine, 
where,  as  we  have  seen,  the  arcades,  though  continuous,  are 
always  composed  of  a central  mass  and  two  wings  of  smaller 
arches.  The  central  group  becomes  the  door  or  the  middle 
light  of  the  Gothic  palace,  and  the  wings  break  into  its  lateral 
windows. 

§ vii.  But  the  most  essential  difference  in  the  entire  ar< 


236 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


rangement,  is  the  loss  of  the  unity  of  conception  which  regu< 
lated  Byzantine  composition.  How  subtle  the  sense  of  grada- 
tion which  disposed  the  magnitudes  of  the  early  palaces  we 
have  seen  already,  but  I have  not  hitherto  noticed  that  the 
Byzantine  work  was  centralized  in  its  ornamentation  as  much 
as  in  its  proportions.  Not  only  were  the  lateral  capitals  and 
archivolts  kept  comparatively  plain,  while  the  central  ones 
were  sculptured,  but  the  midmost  piece  of  sculpture,  what- 
ever it  might  be, — capital,  inlaid  circle,  or  architrave, — was 
always  made  superior  to  the  rest.  In  the  Fondaco  de’  Turchi, 
for  instance,  the  midmost  capital  of  the  upper  arcade  is  the 
key  to  the  whole  group,  larger  and  more  studied  than  all  the 
rest ; and  the  lateral  ones  are  so  disposed  as  to  answer  each 
other  on  the  opposite  sides,  thus,  a being  put  for  the  central  one, 

febcAcbef, 

a sudden  break  of  the  system  being  admitted  in  one  unique 
capital  at  the  extremity  of  the  series. 

§ viii.  Now,  long  after  the  Byzantine  arcades  had  been  con- 
tracted into  windows,  this  system  of  centralization  was  more 
or  less  maintained  ; and  in  all  the  early  groups  of  windows  of 
five  lights  the  midmost  capital  is  different  from  the  two  on 
each  side  of  it,  which  always  correspond.  So  strictly  is  this 
the  case,  that  whenever  the  capitals  of  any  group  of  windows 
are  not  centralized  in  this  manner,  but  are  either  entirely  like 
each  other,  or  all  different,  so  as  to  show  no  correspondence, 
it  is  a certain  proof,  even  if  no  other  should  exist,  of  the  com- 
parative lateness  of  the  building. 

In  every  group  of  windows  in  Venice  which  I was  able  to 
examine,  and  which  were  centralized  in  this  manner,  I found 
evidence  in  their  mouldings  of  their  being  anterior  to  the 
Ducal  Palace.  That  palace  did  away  with  the  subtle  propor- 
tion and  centralization  of  the  Byzantine.  Its  arches  are  of 
equal  width,  and  its  capitals  are  all  different  and  ungrouped  ; 
some,  indeed,  are  larger  than  the  rest,  but  this  is  not  for  the 
sake  of  proportion,  only  for  particular  service  when  more 
weight  is  to  be  borne.  But,  among  other  evidences  of  the 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


237 


early  date  of  the  sea  fa§ade  of  that  building,  is  one  subtle  and 
delicate  concession  to  the  system  of  centralization  which  is 
finally  closed.  The  capitals  of  the  upper  arcade  are,  as  I said, 
all  different,  and  show  no  arranged  correspondence  with  each 
other  ; but  the  central  one  is  of  pure  Parian  marble,  while  all 
the  others  are  of  Istrian  stone. 

The  bold  decoration  of  the  central  window  and  balcony 
above,  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  is  only  a peculiar  expression  of 
the  principality  of  the  central  window,  which  was  character- 
'istic  of  the  Gothic  period  not  less  than  of  the  Byzantine.  In 
the  private  palaces  the  central  windows  become  of  impor- 
tance by  their  number  of  lights  ; in  the  Ducal  Palace  such  an 
arrangement  was,  for  various  reasons,  inconvenient,  and  the 
central  window,  which,  so  far  from  being  more  important 
than  the  others,  is  every  way  inferior  in  design  to  the  two  at 
the  eastern  extremity  of  the  facade,  was  nevertheless  made 
the  leading  feature  by  its  noble  canopy  and  balcony. 

§ ix.  Such  being  the  principal  differences  in  the  general 
conception  of  the  Byzantine  and  Gothic  palaces,  the  particu- 
lars in  the  treatment  of  the  latter  are  easily  stated.  The  mar- 
ble facings  are  gradually  removed  from  the  walls  ; and  the 
bare  brick  either  stands  forth  confessed  boldly,  contrasted 
with  the  marble  shafts  and  arcliivolts  of  the  windows,  or  it  is 
covered  with  stucco  painted  in  fresco,  of  which  more  here- 
after. The  Ducal  Palace,  as  in  all  other  respects,  is  an  exact 
expression  of  the  middle  point  in  the  change.  It  still  retains 
marble  facing  ; but  instead  of  being  disposed  in  slabs  as  in 
the  Byzantine  times,  it  is  applied  in  solid  bricks  or  blocks  of 
marble,  11^  inches  long,  by  6 inches  high. 

The  stories  of  the  Gothic  palaces  are  divided  by  string 
courses,  considerably  bolder  in  projection  than  those  of  the 
Byzantines,  and  more  highly  decorated  ; and  while  the  angles 
of  the  Byzantine  palaces  are  quite  sharp  and  pure,  those  of 
the  Gothic  palaces  are  wrought  into  a chamfer,  filled  by  small 
twisted  shafts  which  have  capitals  under  the  cornice  of  each 
story. 

§ x.  These  capitals  are  little  observed  in  the  general  effect, 
but  the  shafts  are  of  essential  importance  in  giving  an  aspect 


238 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


of  firmness  to  the  angle  ; a point  of  peculiar  necessity  in  Ven- 
ice, where,  owing  to  the  various  convolutions  of  the  canals, 
the  angles  of  the  palaces  are  not  only  frequent,  but  often  nec- 
essarily acute , every  inch  of  ground  being  valuable.  In  other 
cities,  the  appearance  as  well  as  the  assurance  of  stability  can 
always  be  secured  by  the  use  of  massy  stones,  as  in  the  fort- 
ress palaces  of  Florence  ; but  it  must  have  been  always  de- 
sirable at  Venice  to  build  as  lightly  as  possible,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  comparative  insecurity  of  the  foundations. 
The  early  palaces  were,  as  we  have  seen,  perfect  models  of 
grace  and  lightness,  and  the  Gothic,  which  followed,  though 
much  more  massive  in  the  style  of  its  details,  never  admitted 
more  weight  into  its  structure  than  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  its  strength.  Hence,  every  Gothic  palace  has  the  appear- 
ance of  enclosing  as  many  rooms,  and  attaining  as  much 
strength,  as  is  possible,  with  a minimum  quantity  of  brick 
and  stone.  The  traceries  of  the  windows,  which  in  Northern 
Gothic  only  support  the  glass , at  Venice  support  the  building  ; 
and  thus  the  greater  ponderousness  of  the  traceries  is  only  an 
indication  of  the  greater  lightness  of  the  structure . Hence, 
when  the  Renaissance  architects  give  their  opinions  as  to  the 
stability  of  the  Ducal  Palace  when  injured  by  fire,  one  of 
them,  Christofore  Sorte,  says,  that  he  thinks  it  by  no  means 
laudable  that  the  “ Serenissimo  Dominio  ” of  the  Venetian 
senate  “ should  live  in  a palace  built  in  the  air.”  * And 
again,  Andrea  della  Valle  says,  that  f “ the  wall  of  the  saloon 
is  thicker  by  fifteen  inches  than  the  shafts  below  it,  projecting 
nine  inches  within,  and  six  without,  standing  as  if  in  the  air , 
above  the  piazza  ; J and  yet  this  wall  is  so  nobly  and  strongly 
knit  together,  that  Rusconi,  though  himself  altogether  de- 
voted to  the  Renaissance  school,  declares  that  the  fire  which 

* “ Dice,  che  non  lauda  per  alcun  modo  di  metter  questo  Serenissimo 
Dominio  in  tanto  pericolo  d’  liabitar  un  palazzo  fabricate  in  aria.” — 
Pareri  di  X V.  ArcJiitetti , con  illustrazioni  dell ’ Abbate  Giuseppe  Cadorin 
(Venice,  1838),  p.  104. 

f “ II  muro  della  sala  e pin  grosso  delle  colonne  sott’  esso  piedi  uno  e 
enze  tre,  et  posto  in  modo  che  onze  sei  sta  come  in  aere  sopra  la  piazza, 
et  onze  nove  dentro.” — Pareri  di  XV.  ArcJiitetti , p.  47. 

X Compare  “Seven  Lamps,”  cliap.  iii.  § 7. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


239 


had  destroyed  the  whole  interior  of  the  palace  had  done  this 
wall  no  more  harm  than  the  bite  of  a fly  to  an  elephant 
“ Troveremo  che  el  danno  che  ha  patito  queste  muraglie  sara 
conforme  alia  beccatura  d’  una  mosca  fatta  ad  un  elefante.”* 

§ xi.  And  so  in  all  the  other  palaces  built  at  the  time,  con- 
summate strength  was  joined  with  a lightness  of  form  and 
sparingness  of  material  which  rendered  it  eminently  desirable 
that  the  eye  should  be  convinced,  by  every  possible  expedient, 
of  the  stability  of  the  building  ; and  these  twisted  pillars  at 
the  angles  are  not  among  the  least  important  means  adopted 
for  this  purpose,  for  they  seem  to  bind  the  walls  together  as  a 
cable  binds  a chest.  In  the  Ducal  Palace,  where  they  are 
carried  up  the  angle  of  an  unbroken  wall  forty  feet  high,  they 
are  divided  into  portions,  gradually  diminishing  in  length 
towards  the  top,  by  circular  bands  or  rings,  set  with  the  nail- 
head  or  dog-tooth  ornament,  vigorously  projecting,  and  giving 
the  column  nearly  the  aspect  of  the  stalk  of  a reed  ; its  dimin- 
ishing proportions  being  exactly  arranged  as  they  are  by 
Nature  in  all  jointed  plants.  At  the  top  of  the  palace,  like 
the  wheat- stalk  branching  into  the  ear  of  corn,  it  expands 
into  a small  niche  with  a pointed  canopy,  which  joins  with  the 
fantastic  parapet  in  at  once  relieving,  and  yet  making  more 
notable  by  its  contrast,  the  'weight  of  massy  wTall  below.  The 
arrangement  is  seen  in  the  woodcut,  Chap.  VIII.  ; the  angle 
shafts  being  slightly  exaggerated  in  thickness,  together  with 
their  joints,  as  otherwise  they  would  hardly  have  been  intel- 
ligible on  so  small  a scale. 

The  Ducal  Palace  is  peculiar  in  these  niches  at  the  angles, 
which  throughout  the  rest  of  the  city  appear  on  churches 
only  ; but  some  may  perhaps  have  been  removed  by  restora- 
tions, together  with  the  parapets  with  which  they  were  associ- 
ated. 

§ xii.  Of  these  roof  parapets  of  Venice,  it  has  been  already 
noticed  that  the  examples  which  remain  differ  from  those  of 
all  other  cities  of  Italy  in  their  purely  ornamental  character. 
(Chap.  I.  § xu.)  They  are  not  battlements,  properly  so-called  ; 
still  less  machicolated  cornices,  such  as  crown  the  fortress 
* Pareri,  p.  21,  before  quoted. 


240 


THE  ST0HE8  OF  VENICE. 


palaces  of  the  great  mainland  nobles  ; but  merely  adaptations 
of  the  light  and  crown-like  ornaments  which  crest  the  walls  of 
the  Arabian  mosque.  Nor  are  even  these  generally  used  on 
the  main  walls  of  the  palaces  themselves.  They  occur  on  the 
Ducal  Palace,  on  the  Casa  d’  Oro,  and,  some  years  back,  were 
still  standing  on  the  Fondaco  de’  Turchi ; but  the  majority  of 
the  Gothic  Palaces  have  the  plain  dog-tooth  cornice  under  the 
tiled  projecting  roof  (Yol.  I.  Chap.  XIV.  § iv.) ; and  the 
highly  decorated  parapet  is  employed  only  on  the  tops  of  walls 
which  surround  courts  or  gardens,  and  wThich,  without  such 
decoration,  would  have  been  utterly  devoid  of  interest.  Fig. 


Fig.  XXIII. 


XXIII.  represents,  at  b,  part  of  a parapet  of  this  kind  which 
surrounds  the  court-yard  of  a palace  in  the  Calle  del  Bagatin, 
between  San  G.  Grisostomo,  and  San  Canzian  : the  whole  is 
of  brick,  and  the  mouldings  peculiarly  sharp  and  varied  ; the 
height  of  each  separate  pinnacle  being  about  four  feet,  crown- 
ing a wall  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  high  : a piece  of  the  moulding 
which  surrounds  the  quatrefoil  is  given  larger  in  the  figure  at 
a,  together  with  the  top  of  the  small  arch  below,  having  the 
common  Venetian  dentil  round  it,  and  a delicate  little  mould- 
ing with  dog-tooth  ornament  to  carry  the  flanks  of  the  arch. 
The  moulding  of  the  brick  is  throughout  sharp  and  beautiful 
in  the  highest  degree.  One  of  the  most  curious  points  about 
it  is  the  careless  way  in  which  the  curved  outlines  of  the  pin- 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


241 


nacles  are  cut  into  the  plain  brickwork,  with  no  regard  what- 
ever to  the  places  of  its  joints.  The  weather  of  course  wears 
the  bricks  at  the  exposed  joints,  and  jags  the  outline  a little  ; 
but  the  work  has  stood,  evidently  from  the  fourteenth  century, 
without  sustaining  much  harm. 

§ xiii.  This  parapet  may  be  taken  as  a general  type  of  the 
?m/Z-parapet  of  Venice  in  the  Gothic  period  ; some  being  much 
less  decorated,  and  others  much  more  richly  : the  most  beau- 
tiful in  Venice  is  in  the  little  Calle,  opening  on  the  Campo  and 
Traghetto  San  Samuele  ; it  has  delicately  carved  devices  in 
stone  let  into  each  pinnacle. 

The  parapets  of  the  palaces  themselves  were  lighter  and 
more  fantastic,  consisting  of  narrow  lance-like  spires  of  marble, 
set  between  the  broader  pinnacles,  which  were  in  such  cases 
generally  carved  into  the  form  of  a fleur-de-lis : the  French 
word  gives  the  reader  the  best  idea  of  the  form,  though  he 
must  remember  that  this  use  of  the  lily  for  the  parapets  has 
nothing  to  do  with  France,  but  is  the  carrying  out  of  the 
Byzantine  system  of  floral  ornamentation,  which  introduced 
the  outline  of  the  lily  everywhere  ; so  that  I have  found  it 
convenient  to  call  its  most  beautiful  capitals,  the  lily  capitals 
of  St.  Mark’s.  But  the  occurrence  of  this  flower,  more  dis- 
tinctly than  usual,  on  the  battlements  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
was  the  cause  of  some  curious  political  speculation  in  the  year 
1511,  when  a piece  of  one  of  these  battlements  was  shaken 
down  by  the  great  earthquake  of  that  year.  Sanuto  notes  in 
his  diary  that  “ the  piece  that  fell  was  just  that  which  bore 
the  lily,”  and  records  sundry  sinister  anticipations,  founded 
on  this  important  omen,  of  impending  danger  to  the  adverse 
French  power.  As  there  happens,  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  to  be 
a joint  in  the  pinnacles  which  exactly  separates  the  “ part 
which  bears  the  lily  ” from  that  which  is  fastened  to  the  cor- 
nice, it  is  no  wonder  that  the  omen  proved  fallacious. 

§ xiv.  The  decorations  of  the  parapet  were  completed  by 
attaching  gilded  balls  of  metal  to  the  extremities  of  the  leaves 
of  the  lilies,  and  of  the  intermediate  spires,  so  as  literally  to 
form  for  the  wall  a diadem  of  silver  touched  upon  the  points 
with  gold  ; the  image  being  rendered  still  more  distinct  in  the 
Vol.  II.— 16 


242 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Casa  d’  Oro,  by  variation  in  the  height  of  the  pinnacles,  the 
highest  being  in  the  centre  of  the  front. 

Yery  few  of  these  light  roof  parapets  now  remain  ; they  are, 
of  course,  the  part  of  the  building  which  dilapidation  first 
renders  it  necessary  to  remove.  That  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
however,  though  often,  I doubt  not,  restored,  retains  much  of 
the  ancient  form,  and  is  exceedingly  beautiful,  though  it  has 
no  appearance  from  below  of  being  intended  for  protection, 
but  serves  only,  by  its  extreme  lightness,  to  relieve  the  eye 
when  wearied  by  the  breadth  of  wall  beneath  ; it  is  neverthe- 
less a most  serviceable  defence  for  any  person  walking  along 
the  edge  of  the  roof.  It  has  some  appearance  of  insecurity, 
owing  to  the  entire  independence  of  the  pieces  of  stone  com- 
posing it,  which,  though  of  course  fastened  by  iron,  look  as  if 
they  stood  balanced  on  the  cornice  like  the  pillars  of  Stone- 
henge ; but  I have  never  heard  of  its  having  been  disturbed 
by  anything  short  of  an  earthquake  ; and,  as  we  have  seen, 
even  the  great  earthquake  of  1511,  though  it  much  injured 
the  Gorne,  or  battlements  at  the  Casa  d’Oro,  and  threw  down 
several  statues  at  St.  Mark’s,*  only  shook  one  lily  from  the 
brow  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

§ xv.  Although,  however,  these  light  and  fantastic  forms 
appear  to  have  been  universal  in  the  battlements  meant  pri- 
marily for  decoration,  there  was  another  condition  of  parapet 
altogether  constructed  for  the  protection  of  persons  walking- 
on  the  roofs  or  in  the  galleries  of  the  churches,  and  from 
these  more  substantial  and  simple  defences,  the  Balconies,  to 

* It  is  a curious  proof  how  completely,  even  so  early  as  the  beginning 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  Venetians  had  lost  the  habit  of  reading  the 
religious  art  of  their  ancient  churches,  that  Sanuto,  describing  this  in- 
jury, says,  that  “ four  of  the  Kings  in  marble  fell  from  their  pinnacles 
above  the  front,  at  St.  Mark’s  church  ; ” and  presently  afterwards  cor- 
rects his  mistake,  and  apologises  for  it  thus:  “ These  were. four  saints, 
St.  Constantine,  St.  Demetrius,  St.  George,  and  St.  Theodore,  all  Greek 
saints.  They  look  like  Kings”  Observe  the  perfect,  because  uninten- 
tional, praise  given  to  the  old  sculptor. 

I quote  the  passage  from  the  translation  of  these  precious  diaries  of 
Sanuto,  by  my  friend  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown,  a translation  which  I hope 
will  some  day  become  a standard  book  in  English  libraries. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


243 


which  the  Gothic  palaces  owe  half  of  their  picturesque  effect, 
were  immediately  derived  ; the  balcony  being,  in  fact,  nothing 
more  than  a portion  of  such  roof  parapets  arranged  round 
a projecting  window-sill  sustained  on  brackets,  as  in  the  cen- 
tral example  of  the  annexed  figure.  We  must,  therefore, 
examine  these  defensive  balustrades  and  the  derivative  bal- 
conies consecutively. 

§ xvi.  Obviously,  a parapet  with  an  unbroken  edge,  upon 
which  the  arm  may  rest  (a  con- 
dition above  noticed,  Yol.  I.  p. 

166,  as  essential  to  the  proper 
performance  of  its  duty),  can  be 
constructed  only  in  one  of  three 
ways.  It  must  either  be  (1)  of  ! 
solid  stone,  decorated,  if  at  all, 
by  mere  surface  sculpture,  as  in 
the  uppermost  example  in  Fig. 

XXI Y. ; or  (2)  pierced  into  some 
kind  of  tracery,  as  in  the  second; 
or  (3)  composed  of  small  pillars 
carrying  a level  bar  of  stone,  as 
in  the  third  ; this  last  condition 
being,  in  a diseased  and  swollen 
form,  familiar  to  us  in  the  balus- 
trades of  our  bridges.* 

§ xvii.  (1.)  Of  these  three 
kinds,  the  first,  which  is  em- 
ployed far  the  pulpit  at  Torcello 
and  in  the  nave  of  St.  Mark’s, 
whence  the  uppermost  example  is  taken,  is  beautiful  when 
sculpture  so  rich  can  be  employed  upon  it ; but  it  is  liable  to 
objection,  first,  because  it  is  heavy  and  unlike  a parapet  when 
seen  from  below  ; and,  secondly,  because  it  is  inconvenient  in 
use.  The  position  of  leaning  over  a balcony  becomes  cramped 
and  painful  if  long  continued,  unless  the  foot  can  be  some- 
times advanced  beneath  the  ledge  on  which  the  arm  leans,  i.e. 
between  the  balusters  or  traceries,  which  of  course  cannot  be 
* I am  not  speaking  here  of  iron  balconies.  See  below,  § xxu. 


Fig.  XXIV. 


244:  THE  STONES  01 f VENICE. 

done  in  the  solid  parapet : it  is  also  more  agreeable  to  be  abl$ 
to  see  partially  down  through  the  penetrations,  than  to  be 
obliged  to  lean  far  over  the  edge.  The  solid  parapet  was 
rarely  used  in  Venice  after  the  earlier  ages. 

§ xvm.  (2.)  The  Traceried  Parapet  is  chiefly  used  in  the 
Gothic  of  the  North,  from  which  the  above  example,  in  the 
Casa  Contarini  Fasan,  is  directly  derived.  It  is,  when  well 
designed,  the  richest  and  most  beautiful  of  all  forms,  and 
many  of  the  best  buildings  of  France  and  Germany  are  de- 
pendent for  half  their  effect  upon  it  ; its  only  fault  being  a 
slight  tendency  to  fantasticism.  It  was  never  frankly  received 
in  Venice,  where  the  architects  had  unfortunately  returned  to 
the  Renaissance  forms  before  the  flamboyant  parapets  were 
fully  developed  in  the  North  ; but,  in  the  early  stage  of  the 
Renaissance,  a kind  of  pierced  parapet  was  employed,  founded 
on  the  old  Byzantine  interwoven  traceries  ; that  is  to  say,  the 
slab  of  stone  was  pierced  here  and  there  with  holes,  and  then 
an  interwoven  pattern  traced  on  the  surface  round  them.  The 

difference  in  system  will  be  under- 
stood in  a moment  by  comparing 
the  uppermost  example  in  the  fig- 
ure at  the  side,  which  is  a Northern 
parapet  from  the  Cathedral  of 
Abbeville,  with  the  lowest,  from  a 
secret  chamber  in  the  CasaFoscari. 
It  will  be  seen  that  the  Venetian 
one  is  far  more  simple  and  severe, 
yet  singularly  piquant,  the  black 
penetrations  telling  sharply  on  the 
plain  broad  surface.  Far  inferior 
in  beauty,  it  has  yet  one  point  of 
superiority  to  that  of  Abbeville, 
that  it  proclaims  itself  more  defi- 
nitely to  be  stone.  The  other  has 
rather  the  look  of  lace, 
is  a panel  of  the  main  balcony  of 
the  Ducal  Palace,  and  is  introduced  here  as  being  an  exactly 
transitional  condition  between  the  Northern  and  Venetian 


Fig.  XXV. 

The  intermediate  figure 


GOTHIC  PALACES, . 


245 


types.  It  was  built  when  the  German  Gothic  workmen  were 
exercising  considerable  influence  over  those  in  Venice,  and 
there  was  some  chance  of  the  Northern  parapet  introducing 
itself.  It  actually  did  so,  as  above  shown,  in  the  Casa  Conta- 
rini  Fasan,  but  was  for  the  most  part  stoutly  resisted  and  kept 
at  bay  by  the  Byzantine  form,  the  lowest  in  the  last  figure, 
until  that  form  itself  was  displaced  by  the  common,  vulgar, 
Renaissance  baluster  ; a grievous  loss,  for  the  severe  pierced 
type  was  capable  of  a variety  as  endless  as  the  fantasticism  of 
our  own  Anglo-Saxon  manuscript  ornamentation. 

§ xix.  (3.)  The  Baluster  Parapet.  Long  before  the  idea  of 
tracery  had  suggested  itself  to  the  minds  either  of  Venetian 
or  any  other  architects,  it  had,  of  course,  been  necessary  to 
provide  protection  for  galleries,  edges  of  roofs,  &c.  ; and  the 
most  natural  form  in  which  such  protection  could  be  obtained 
was  that  of  a horizontal  bar  or  hand-rail,  sustained  upon  short 
shafts  or  balusters,  as  in  Fig.  XXIV.  p.  243.  This  form  was, 
above  all  others,  likely  to  be  adopted  where  variations  of 
Greek  or  Roman  pillared  architecture  w^ere  universal  in  the 
larger  masses  of  the  building  ; the  parapet  became  itself  a 
small  series  of  columns,  with  capitals  and  architraves  ; and 
whether  the  cross-bar  laid  upon  them  should  be  simply  hori- 
zontal, and  in  contact  with  their  capitals,  or  sustained  by 
mimic  arches,  round  or  pointed,  depended  entirely  on  the 
system  adopted  in  the  rest  of  the  work.  Where  the  large 
arches  were  round,  the  small  balustrade  arches  would  be  so 
likewise  ; where  those  were  pointed,  these  would  become  so 
in  sympathy  with  them. 

§ xx.  Unfortunately,  wherever  a balcony  or  parapet  is  used 
in  an  inhabited  house,  it  is,  of  course,  the  part  of  the  structure 
which  first  suffers  from  dilapidation,  as  well  as  that  of  which 
the  security  is  most  anxiously  cared  for.  The  main  pillars  of 
a casement  may  stand  for  centuries  unshaken  under  the  steady 
weight  of  the  superincumbent  wall,  but  the  cement  and  vari- 
ous insetting  of  the  balconies  are  sure  to  be  disturbed  by  the 
irregular  pressures  and  impulses  of  the  persons  leaning  on 
them  ; while,  whatever  extremity  of  decay  may  be  allowed  in 
other  parts  of  the  building,  the  balcony,  as  soon  as  it  seems 


246 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


dangerous,  will  assuredly  be  removed  or  restored.  The  reade? 
will  not,  if  he  considers  this,  be  surprised  to  hear  that,  among 
all  the  remnants  of  the  Venetian  domestic  architecture  of  the 
eleventh,  twelfth,  and  thirteenth  centuries,  there  is  not  a single 
instance  of  the  original  balconies  being  preserved.  The  palace 
mentioned  below  (§  xxxn.),  in  the  piazza  of  the  Rialto,  has, 
indeed,  solid  slabs  of  stone  between  its  shafts,  but  I cannot  be 
certain  that  they  are  of  the  same  period  ; if  they  are,  this  is 
the  only  existing  example  of  the  form  of  protection  employed 
for  casements  during  this  transitional  period,  and  it  cannot  be 
reasoned  from  as  being  the  general  one. 

§ xxi.  It  is  only,  therefore,  in  the  churches  of  Torcello, 
Murano,  and  St.  Mark’s,  that  the  ancient  forms  of  gallery  de- 
fence may  still  be  seen.  At  Murano,  between  the  pillars  of 
the  apse,  a beautiful  balustrade  is  employed,  of  Avhich  a single 
arch  is  given  in  the  Plate  opposite,  fig.  4,  with  its  section,  fig. 
5.  ; and  at  St.  Mark’s,  a noble  round-arched  parapet,  with 
small  pillars  of  precisely  the  same  form  as  those  of  Murano, 
but  shorter,  and  bound  at  the  angles  into  groups  of  four  by 
the  serpentine  knot  so  often  occurring  in  Lombardic  work, 
runs  round  the  whole  exterior  of  the  lower  story  of  the  church, 
and  round  great  part  of  its  interior  galleries,  alternating  with 
the  more  fantastic  form,  fig.  6.  In  domestic  architecture,  the 
remains  of  the  original  balconies  begin  to  occur  first  in  the 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  when  the  round  arch  had 
entirely  disappeared  ; and  the  parapet  consists,  almost  with- 
out exception,  of  a series  of  small  trefoiled  arches,  cut  boldly 
through  a bar  of  stone  which  rests  upon  the  shafts,  at  first 
very  simple,  and  generally  adorned  with  a cross  at  the  point 
of  each  arch,  as  in  fig.  7 in  the  last  Plate,  which  gives  the 
angle  of  such  a balcony  on  a large  scale  ; but  soon  enriched 
into  the  beautiful  conditions,  figs.  2 and  3,  and  sustained  on 
brackets  formed  of  lions’  heads,  as  seen  in  the  central  example 
of  their  entire  effect,  fig.  1. 

§ xxii.  In  later  periods,  the  round  arches  return  ; then  the 
interwoven  Byzantine  form  ; and  finally,  as  above  noticed,  the 
common  English  or  classical  balustrade  ; of  which,  however, 
exquisite  examples,  for  grace  and  variety  of  outline,  are  found 


Plate  XIII. — Balconies. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


247 


designed  in  the  backgrounds  of  Paul  Veronese.  I could 
willingly  follow  out  this  subject  fully,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
do  so  without  leaving  Venice  ; for  the  chief  city  of  Italy,  as 
far  as  regards  the  strict  effect  of  the  balcony,  is  Verona;  and 
if  we  were  once  to  lose  ourselves  among  the  sweet  shadows 
of  its  lonely  streets,  where  the  falling  branches  of  the  flowers 
stream  like  fountains  through  the  pierced  traceries  of  the  mar- 
ble, there  is  no  saying  whether  we  might  soon  be  able  to  re- 
turn to  our  immediate  work.  Yet  before  leaving  the  subject 
of  the  balcony  * altogether,  I must  allude,  for  a moment,  to 
the  peculiar  treatment  of  the  iron-work  out  of  which  it  is 
frequently  wrought  on  the  mainland  of  Italy — never  in  Ven- 
ice. The  iron  is  always  wrought,  not  cast,  beaten  first  into 
thin  leaves,  and  then  cut  either  into  strips  or  bands,  two  or 
three  inches  broad,  which  are  bent  into  various  curves  to  form 
the  sides  of  the  balcony,  or  else  into  actual  leafage,  sweeping 
and  free,  like  the  leaves  of  nature,  with  which  it  is  richly  dec- 
orated. There  is  no  end  to  the  variety  of  design,  no  limit  to 
the  lightness  and  flow  of  the  forms,  which  the  workman  can 
produce  out  of  iron  treated  in  this  manner  ; and  it  is  very 
nearly  as  impossible  for  any  metal-work,  so  handled,  to  be 
poor,  or  ignoble  in  effect,  as  it  is  for  cast  metal-work  to  be 
otherwise. 

§ xxiii.  We  have  next  to  examine  those  features  of  the 
Gothic  palaces  in  which  the  transitions  of  their  architecture 
are  most  distinctly  traceable  ; namely,  the  arches  of  the  win- 
dows and  doors. 

It  has  already  been  repeatedly  stated,  that  the  Gothic  style 
had  formed  itself  completely  on  the  mainland,  while  the 
Byzantines  still  retained  their  influence  at  Venice  ; and  that 
the  history  of  early  Venetian  Gothic  is  therefore  not  that  of 
a school  taking  new  forms  independently  of  external  influence, 
but  the  history  of  the  struggle  of  the  Byzantine  manner  with 
a contemporary  style  quite  as  perfectly  organized  as  itself,  and 
far  more  energetic.  And  this  struggle  is  exhibited  partly  in 
the  gradual  change  of  the  Byzantine  architecture  into  other 

* Some  details  respecting  tlie  mechanical  structure  of  the  Venetian 
balcony  are  given  in  the  final  Appendix. 


248 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


forms,  and  partly  by  isolated  examples  of  genuine  Gothic 
taken  prisoner,  as  it  were,  in  the  contest ; or  ratherentangled 
among  the  enemy’s  forces,  and  maintaining  their  ground  till 
their  friends  came  up  to  sustain  them.  Let  us  first  follow  the 
steps  of  the  gradual  change,  and  then  give  some  brief  account 
of  the  various  advanced  guards  and  forlorn  hopes  of  the 
Gothic  attacking  force. 

§ xxiv.  The  uppermost  shaded  series  of  six  forms  of  win- 
dows in  Plate  XIV.,  opposite,  represents,  at  a glance,  the  modi- 
fications of  this  feature  in  Venetian  palaces,  from  the  eleventh 
to  the  fifteenth  century.  Pig.  1 is  Byzantine,  of  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth  centuries  ; figs.  2 and  3 transitional,  of  the  thir- 
teenth and  early  fourteenth  centuries  ; figs.  4 and  5 pure 
Gothic  of  the  thirteenth,  fourteenth  and  early  fifteenth  ; and 
fig.  6 late  Gothic,  of  the  fifteenth  century,  distinguished  by 
its  added  finial.  Pig.  4 is  the  longest-lived  of  all  these  forms  : 
it  occurs  first  in  the  thirteenth  century  ; and,  sustaining  modi- 
fications only  in  its  mouldings,  is  found  also  in  the  middle  of 
the  fifteenth. 

I shall  call  these  the  six  orders*  of  Venetian  windows,  and 
when  I speak  of  a window  of  the  fourth,  second,  or  sixth 
order,  the  reader  will  only  have  to  refer  to  the  numerals  at  the 
top  of  Plate  XIV. 

Then  the  series  below  shows  the  principal  forms  found  in 
each  period,  belonging  to  each  several  order  ; except  1 b to  1 
c,  and  the  two  lower  series,  numbered  7 to  16,  which  are  types 
of  Venetian  doors. 

* I found  it  convenient  in  my  own  memoranda  to  express  them  simply 
as  fourths,  seconds,  &c.  But  order”  is  an  excellent  word  for  any 
known  group  of  forms,  whether  of  windows,  capitals,  bases,  mouldings, 
or  any  other  architectural  feature,  provided  always  that  it  be  not  under- 
stood in  any  wise  to  imply  peemineuce  or  isolation  in  these  groups. 
Thus  I may  rationally  speak  of  the  six  orders  of  Venetian  windows,  pro- 
vided I am  ready  to  allow  a French  architect  to  speak  of  the  six  or 
seven,  or  eight,  or  seventy  or  eighty,  orders  of  Norman  windows,  if  so 
many  are  distinguishable  ; and  so  also  we  may  rationally  speak,  for  the 
sake  of  intelligibility,  of  the  five  orders  of  Greek  pillars,  provided  only 
we  understand  that  there  may  be  five  millions  of  orders  as  good  or  bet> 
ter,  of  pillars  not  Greek. 


Plate  XIY.— The  Orders  of  Venetian  Arches. 


IRTfl’in 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


249 


§ xxv.  We  shall  now  be  able,  without  any  difficulty,  to  fol- 
low the  course  of  transition,  beginning  with  the  first  order, 

1 and  1 a , in  the  second  row.  The  horse-shoe  arch,  1 6,  is  the 
door-head  commonly  associated  with  it,  and  the  other  three  in 
the  same  row  occur  in  St.  Mark’s  exclusively  ; 1 c being  used 
in  the  nave,  in  order  to  give  a greater  appearance  of  lightness 
to  its  great  lateral  arcades,  which  at  first  the  spectator  sup- 
poses to  be  round-arched,  but  he  is  struck  by  a peculiar  grace 
and  elasticity  in  the  curves  for  which  he  is  unable  to  account, 
until  he  ascends  into  the  galleries  whence  the  true  form  of 
the  arch  is  discernible.  The  other  two — 1 d , from  the  door  of 
the  southern  transept,  and  1 c,  from  that  of  the  treasury, — 
sufficiently  represent  a group  of  fantastic  forms  derived  from 
the  Arabs,  and  of  which  the  exquisite  decoration  is  one  of  the 
most  important  features  in  St.  Mark’s.  Their  form  is  indeed 
permitted  merely  to  obtain  more  fantasy  in  the  curves  of  this 
decoration.*  The  reader  can  see  in  a moment,  that,  as  pieces 
of  masonry,  or  bearing  arches,  they  are  infirm  or  useless,  and 
therefore  never  could  be  employed  in  any  building  in  which 
dignity  of  structure  was  the  primal  object.  It  is  just  because 
structure  is  not  the  primal  object  in  St.  Mark’s,  because  it  has 
no  severe  weights  to  bear,  and  much  loveliness  of  marble  and 
sculpture  to  exhibit,  that  they  are  therein  allowable.  They 
are  of  course,  like  the  rest  of  the  building,  built  of  brick  and 
faced  with  marble,  and  their  inner  masonry,  which  must  be 
very  ingenious,  is  therefore  not  discernible.  They  have  set- 
tled a little,  as  might  have  been  expected,  and  the  consequence 
is,  that  there  is  in  every  one  of  them,  except  the  upright  arch 
of  the  treasury,  a small  fissure  across  the  marble  of  the  flanks. 

§ xxvi.  Though,  however,  the  Venetian  builders  adopted 
these  Arabian  forms  of  arch  where  grace  of  ornamentation 
was  their  only  purpose,  they  saw  that  such  arrangements  were 
unfit  for  ordinary  work  ; and  there  is  no  instance,  I believe,  in 
Venice,  of  their  having  used  any  of  them  for  a dwelling-house 
in  the  truly  Byzantine  period.  But  so  soon  as  the  Gothic  in- 
fluence began  to  be  felt,  and  the  pointed  arch  forced  itself 

* Or  in  their  own  curves  ; as,  on  a small  scale,  in  the  balustrade  fig. 
6,  Plate  XIII.,  above. 


250 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


upon  them,  their  first  concession  to  its  attack  was  the  adop< 
tion,  in  preference  to  the  round  arch,  of  the  form  3 a (Plate 
XIV.,  above)  ; the  point  of  the  Gothic  arch  forcing  itself  up, 
as  it  were,  through  the  top  of  the  semicircle  which  it  was  soon 
to  supersede. 

§ xxvii.  The  woodcut,  Fig.  XXVI.,  represents  the  door  and 
two  of  the  lateral  windows  of  a house  in  the  Corte  del 
Berner,  facing  the  Grand  Canal,  in  the  parish  of  the  Apos- 
toli.  It  is  remarkable  as  having  its  great  entrance  on  the  first 
floor,  attained  by  a bold  flight  of  steps,  sustained  on  pure 
pointed  arches  wrought  in  brick.  I cannot  tell  if  these  arches 


are  contemporary  with  the  building,  though  it  must  always 
have  had  an  access  of  the  kind.  The  rest  of  its  aspect  is 
Byzantine,  except  only  that  the  rich  sculptures  of  its  archivolt 
show  in  combats  of  animals,  beneath  the  soffit,  a beginning  of 
the  Gothic  fire  and  energy.  The  moulding  of  its  plinth  is  of 
a Gothic  profile,*  and  the  windows  are  pointed,  not  with  a re- 
versed curve,  but  in  a pure  straight  gable,  very  curiously  con- 
trasted with  the  delicate  bending  of  the  pieces  of  marble 
armor  cut  for  the  shoulders  of  each  arch.  There  is  a two- 
lighted  window,  such  as  that  seen  in  the  vignette,  on  each 
side  of  the  door,  sustained  in  the  centre  by  a basket-worked 

* For  all  details  of  tliis  kind,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  final  Ap- 
pendix in  Yol.  III. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


251 


Byzantine  capital : the  mode  of  covering  the  brick  archivolt 
with  marble,  both  in  the  windows  and  doorway,  is  precisely 
like  that  of  the  true  Byzantine  palaces. 

§ xxvin.  But  as,  even  on  a small  scale,  these  arches  are 
weak,  if  executed  in  brickwork,  the  appearance  of  this  sharp 
point  in  the  outline  was  rapidly  accompanied 
by  a parallel  change  in  the  method  of  building ; 
and  instead  of  constructing  the  arch  of  brick 
and  coating  it  with  marble,  the  builders  formed 
it  of  three  pieces  of  hewn  stone  inserted  in 
the  wall,  as  in  Fig.  XXVII.  Not,  however,  at 
first  in  this  perfect  form.  The  endeavor  to 
reconcile  the  grace  of  the  reversed  arch  with  the  strength 
of  the  round  one,  and  still  to  build  in  brick,  ended  at  first 
in  conditions  such  as  that  represented  at  a,  Fig.  XXVIII., 


a Fig.  XXVIII.  6 

which  is  a window  in  the  Calle  del  Pistor,  close  to  the 
church  of  the  Apostoli,  a very  interesting  and  perfect  ex- 
ample. Here,  observe,  the  poor  round  arch  is  still  kept  to  do 
all  the  hard  work,  and  the  fantastic  ogee  takes  its  pleasure 
above,  in  the  form  of  a moulding  merely,  a chain  of  bricks 
cast  to  the  required  curve.  And  this  condition,  translated  into 
stone-work,  becomes  a window  of  the  second  order  ( b , Fig. 
XXVIH.,  or  2,  in  Plate  XIV.) ; a form  perfectly  strong  and 
serviceable,  and  of  imiqense  importance  ii|  the  transitional 
architecture  of  Venice. 

§ xxix.  At  b,  Fig,  XXVIII.,  as  above,  is  given  one  of  the 
earliest  and  simplest  occurrences  of  the  second  order  window 


Fig.  XXVII. 


252  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 

(in  a double  group,  exactly  like  the  brick  transitional  form  a\ 
from  a most  important  fragment  of  a defaced  house  in  the 
Salizzada  San  Lio,  close  to  the  Merceria.  It  is  associated 
with  a fine  pointed  brick  arch,  indisputably  of  contemporary 
work,  towards  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  it 
is  shown  to  be  later  than  the  previous  example,  a,  by  the 
greater  developement  of  its  mouldings.  The  archivolt  pro- 
file, indeed,  is  the  simpler  of  the  two,  not  having  the  sub- 
arch ; as  in  the  brick  example  ; but  the  other 
mouldings  are  far  more  developed.  Fig. 
XXIX.  shows  at  1 the  arch  profiles,  at  2 the 
capital  profiles,  at  3 the  basic-plinth  profiles, 
of  each  window,  a and  b. 

§ xxx.  But  the  second  order  window  soon 
attained  nobler  developement.  At  once 
simple,  graceful,  and  strong,  it  was  received 
into  all  the  architecture  of  the  period,  and 
there  is  hardly  a street  in  Venice  which  does 
not  exhibit  some  important  remains  of  pal- 
aces built  with  this  form  of  window  in  many 
stories,  and  in  numerous  groups.  The  most 
extensive  and  perfect  is  one  upon  the  Grand 
Canal  in  the  parish  of  the  Apostoli,  near  the 
Rialto,  covered  with  rich  decoration,  in  the 
Byzantine  manner,  between  the  windows  of 
its  first  story  ; but  not  completely  charac- 
teristic of  the  transitional  period,  because 
still  retaining  the  dentil  in  the  arch  mould- 
ings, while  the  transitional  houses  all  have 
the  simple  roll.  Of  the  fully  established  type, 
one  of  the  most  extensive  and  perfect  exam- 
ples is  in  a court  in  the  Calle  di  Rimedio,  close  to  the  Ponte 
dell’  Angelo,  near  St.  Mark’s  Place.  Another  looks  out  upon 
a small  square  garden,  one  of  the  few  visible  in  the  centre  of 
Venice,  close  by  the  Corte  Salviati  (the  latter  being  known  to 
every  cicerone  as  that  from  which  Bianca  Capello  fled).  But, 
on  the  whole,  the  most  interesting  to  the  traveller  is  that  of 
which  I have  given  a vignette  opposite. 


I a 


Fig.  XXIX. 


■ ■: — 1 


Plate  XV.— Windows  of  tiie  Second  Order.  Casa  Falier. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


253 


But  for  this  range  of  windows,  the  little  piazza  SS.  Apostoli 
would  be  one  of  the  least  picturesque  in  Venice  ; to  those, 
however,  who  seek  it  on  foot,  it  becomes  geographically  inter- 
esting from  the  extraordinary  involution  of  the  alleys  leading 
to  it  from  the  Bialto.  In  Venice,  the  straight  road  is  usually 
by  water,  and  the  long  road  by  land  ; but  the  difference  of 
distance  appears,  in  this  case,  altogether  inexplicab]e.  Twenty 
or  thirty  strokes  of  the  oar  will  bring  a gondola  from  the  foot 
of  the  Bialto  to  that  of  the  Ponte  SS.  Apostoli ; but  the  un- 
wise pedestrian,  who  has  not  noticed  the  white  clue  beneath 
his  feet,*  may  think  himself  fortunate,  if,  after  a quarter  of 
an  hour’s  wandering  among  the  houses  behind  the  Fondaco 
de’  Tedeschi,  he  finds  himself  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  point  he  seeks.  With  much  patience,  however,  and 
modest  following  of  the  guidance  of  the  marble  thread,  he 
will  at  last  emerge  over  a steep  bridge  into  the  open  space  of 
the  Piazza,  rendered  cheerful  in  autumn  by  a perpetual  mar- 
ket of  pomegranates,  and  purple  gourds,  like  enormous  black 
figs  ; while  the  canal,  at  its  extremity,  is  half-blocked  up  by 
barges  laden  with  vast  baskets  of  grapes  as  black  as  charcoal, 
thatched  over  with  their  own  leaves. 

Looking  back,  on  the  other  side  of  this  canal,  he  will  see 
the  windows  represented  in  Plate  XV.,  which,  with  the  arcade 
of  pointed  arches  beneath  them,  are  the  remains  of  the  palace 
once  belonging  to  the  unhappy  doge,  Marino  Faliero. 

The  balcony  is,  of  course,  modern,  and  the  series  of  win- 
dows has  been  of  greater  extent,  once  terminated  by  a pilas- 
ter on  the  left  hand,  as  well  as  on  the  right ; but  the  terminal 
arches  have  been  walled  up.  What  remains,  however,  is 
enough,  with  its  sculptured  birds  and  dragons,  to  give  the 
reader  a very  distinct  idea  of  the  second  order  window  in  its 

* Two  threads  of  white  marble,  each  about  an  inch  wide,  inlaid  in 
the  dark  grey  pavement,  indicate  the  road  to  the  Bialto  from  the 
farthest  extremity  of  the  north  quarter  of  Venice.  The  peasant  or 
traveller,  lost  in  the  intricacy  of  the  pathway  in  this  portion  of  the  city, 
cannot  fail,  after  a few  experimental  traverses,  to  cross  these  white  lines, 
Which  thenceforward  he  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  follow,  though  their 
capricious  sinuosities  will  try  his  patience  not  a little. 


254 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


perfect  form.  The  details  of  the  capitals,  and  other  minor 
portions,  if  these  interest  him,  he  will  find  given  in  the  final 
Appendix. 

§ xxxi.  The  advance  of  the  Gothic  spirit  was,  for  a few 
years,  checked  by  this  compromise  between  the  round  and 
pointed  arch.  The  truce,  however,  was  at  last  broken,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  discovery  that  the  keystone  would  do  duty 
quite  as  well  in  the  form  b as  in  the  form  a,  Fig.  XXX.,  and 
the  substitution  of  b,  at  the  head  of  the  arch, 
/V  gives  us  the  window  of  the  third  order,  3 b,  3 d, 

V— 4 and  3 e , in  Plate  XIV.  The  forms  3 a and  3 c 

CL  ^ ^ are  exceptional ; the  first  occurring,  as  we  have 
fig.  xxx.  seen?  [n  the  Corte  del  Berner,  and  in  one  other 
palace  on  the  Grand  Canal,  close  to  the  Church  of  St.  Eustachio  ; 
the  second  only,  as  far  as  I know,  in  one  house  on  the  Can- 
na-Beggio,  belonging  to  the  true  Gothic  period.  The  other 
three  examples,  3 b,  3 d,  3 e,  are  generally  characteristic  of  the 
third  order  ; and  it  will  be  observed  that  they  differ  not 
merely  in  mouldings,  but  in  slope  of  sides,  and  this  latter  dif- 
ference is  by  far  the  most  material.  For  in  the  example  3 b 
there  is  hardly  any  truo  Gothic  expression  ; it  is  still  the  pure 
Byzantine  arch,  with  a point  thrust  up  through  it : but  the 
moment  the  flanks  slope,  as  in  3 d,  the  Gothic  expression  is 
definite,  and  the  entire  school  of  the  architecture  is  changed. 

This  slope  of  the  flanks  occurs,  first,  in  so  slight  a degree 
as  to  be  hardly  perceptible,  and  gradually  increases  until,  reach- 
ing the  form  3 e at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the 
window  is  perfectly  prepared  for  a transition  into  the  fifth 
order. 

§ xxxii.  The  most  perfect  examples  of  the  third  order  in 
Venice  are  the  windows  of  the  ruined  palace  of  Marco  Querini, 
the  father-in-law  of  Bajamonte  Tiepolo,  in  consequence  of 
whose  conspiracy  against  the  government  this  palace  was 
ordered  to  be  razed  in  1310  ; but  it  was  only  partially  ruined, 
and  was  afterwards  used  as  the  common  shambles.  The  Vene- 
tians have  now  made  a poultry  market  of  the  lower  story  (the 
shambles  being  removed  to  a suburb),  and  a prison  of  the 
upper,  though  it  is  one  of  the  most  important  and  interesting 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


255 


monuments  in  the  city,  and  especially  valuable  as  giving  us  a 
secure  date  for  the  central  form  of  these  very  rare  transitional 
windows.  For,  as  it  was  the  palace  of  the  father-in-law  of 
Bajamonte,  and  the  later  was  old  enough  to  assume  the  leader- 
ship of  a political  faction  in  1280,*  the  date  of  the  accession  to 
the  throne  of  the  Doge  Pietro  Gradenigo,  we  are  secure  of 
this  palace  having  been  built  not  later  than  the  middle  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  Another  example,  less  refined  in  work- 
manship, but,  if  possible,  still  more  interesting,  owing  to  the 


variety  of  its  capitals,  remains  in  the  little  piazza  opening  to 
the  Rialto,  on  the  St.  Mark’s  side  of  the  Grand  Canal.  The 
house  faces  the  bridge,  and  its  second  story  has  been  built  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  above  a still  earlier  Byzantine  cornice 
remaining,  or  perhaps  introduced  from  some  other  ruined  edi- 
fice, in  the  walls  of  the  first  floor.  The  windows  of  the  second 
story  are  of  pure  third  order ; four  of  them  are  represented 
above,  with  their  flanking  pilaster,  and  capitals  varying  con- 
stantly in  the  form  of  the  flower  or  leaf  introduced  between 
their  volutes. 

§ xxxm.  Another  most  important  example  exists  in  the 
lower  story  of  the  Casa  Sagredo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  remark- 
able as  having  the  early  upright  form  (3  b,  Plate  XIV.)  with 
a somewhat  late  moulding.  Many  others  occur  in  the  frag- 
mentary ruins  in  the  streets  : but  the  two  boldest  conditions 

* An  account  of  the  conspiracy  of  Bajamonte  may  he  found  in  almost 
any  Venetian  history  ; the  reader  may  consult  Mutinelli,  Annali  Urbani, 
lib.  iii. 


256 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


which  I found  in  Venice  are  those  of  the  Chapter-House  of 
the  Frari,  in  which  the  Doge  Francesco  Dandolo  was  buried 
circa  1339  ; and  those  of  the  flank  of  the  Ducal  Palace  itself 
absolutely  corresponding  with  those  of  the  Frari,  and  there- 
fore of  inestimable  value  in  determining  the  date  of  the  palace. 
Of  these  more  hereafter. 

§ xxxiv.  Contemporarily  with  these  windows  of  the  second 
and  third  orders,  those  of  the  fourth  (4  a and  4 b , in  Plate 
XIV.)  occur,  at  first  in  pairs,  and  with  simple  mouldings,  pre- 
cisely similar  to  those  of  the  second  order,  but  much  more 

rare,  as  in  the  example  at  the 
side,  Fig.  XXXH.,  from  the 
Salizada  San  Lid ; and  then, 
enriching  their  mouldings  as 
shown  in  the  continuous  series 
4 c,  4 d,  of  Plate  XIV.,  asso- 
ciate themselves  with  the  fifth 
order  windows  of  the  perfect 
Gothic  period.  There  is  hard- 
ly a palace  in  Venice  without 
some  example,  either  early  or 
late,  of  these  fourth  order  win- 
dows ; but  the  Plate  opposite  (XVI.)  represents  one  of  their 
purest  groups  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  from  a 
house  on  the  Grand  Canal,  nearly  opposite  the  Church  of  the 
Scalzi.  I have  drawn  it  from  the  side,  in  order  that  the  great 
depth  of  the  arches  may  be  seen,  and  the  clear  detaching  of 
the  shafts  from  the  sheets  of  glass  behind.  The  latter,  as 
well  as  the  balcony,  are  comparatively  modern  ; but  there  is 
no  doubt  that  if  glass  were  used  in  the  old  window,  it  was  set 
behind  the  shafts,  at  the  same  depth.  The  entire  modification 
of  the  interiors  of  all  the  Venetian  houses  by  recent  work  has 
however  prevented  me  from  entering  into  any  inquiry  as  to 
the  manner  in  which  the  ancient  glazing  was  attached  to  the 
interiors  of  the  windows. 

The  fourth  order  window  is  found  in  great  richness  and 
beauty  at  Verona,  down  to  the  latest  Gothic  times,  as  well  as 
in  the  earliest,  being  then  more  frequent  than  any  other  form. 


Plate  XYI. — Windows  of  the  Fourth  Order. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


257 


It  occurs,  on  a grand  scale,  in  the  old  palace  of  the  Scaligers, 
and  profusely  throughout  the  streets  of  the  city.  The  series 
4 a to  4 e,  Plate  XIV.,  shows  its  most  ordinary  conditions 
and  changes  of  arch-line : 4 a and  4 b are  the  early  Venetian 
forms  ; 4 c,  later,  is  general  at  Venice  ; 4 d , the  best  and  most 
piquant  condition,  owing  to  its  fantastic  and  bold  projection 
of  cusp,  is  common  to  Venice  and  Verona  ; 4 e is  early  Vero- 
nese. 

§ xxxv.  The  reader  will  see  at  once,  in  descending  to  the 
fifth  row  in  Plate  XIV.,  representing  the  windows  of  the  fifth 
order,  that  they  are  nothing  more  than  a combination  of  the 
third  and  fourth.  By  this  union  they  become  the  nearest  ap- 
proximation to  a perfect  Gothic  form  which  occurs  charac- 
teristically at  Venice  ; and  we  shall  therefore  pause  on  the 
threshold  of  this  final  change,  to  glance  back  upon,  and 
gather  together,  those  fragments  of  purer  pointed  architect- 
ure which  were  above  noticed  as  the  forlorn  hopes  of  the 
Gothic  assault. 

The  little  Campiello  San  Rocco  is  entered  by  a sotto-portico 
behind  the  church  of  the  Frari.  Looking  back,  the  upper 
traceries  of  the  magnificent  apse  are  seen  towering  above  the 
irregular  roofs  and  chimneys  of  the  little  square  ; and  our  lost 
Prout  was  enabled  to  bring  the  whole  subject  into  an  exquis- 
itely picturesque  composition,  by  the  fortunate  occurrence  of 
four  quaint  trefoiled  windows  in  one  of  the  houses  on  the 
right.  Those  trefoils  are  among  the  most  ancient  efforts  of 
Gothic  art  in  Venice.  I have  given  a rude  sketch  of  them  in 
Fig.  XXXIII.  They  are  built  entirely  of  brick,  except  the 
central  shaft  and  capital,  which  are  of  Istrian  stone.  Their 
structure  is  the  simplest  possible  ; the  trefoils  being  cut  out 
of  the  radiating  bricks  which  form  the  pointed  arch,  and  the 
edge  or  upper  limit  of  that  pointed  arch  indicated  by  a roll 
moulding  formed  of  cast  bricks,  in  length  of  about  a foot,  and 
ground  at  the  bottom  so  as  to  meet  in  one,  as  in  Fig.  XXXIV. 
The  capital  of  the  shaft  is  one  of  the  earliest  transitional 
forms  ; * and  observe  the  curious  following  out,  even  in  this 
minor  instance,  of  the  great  law  of  centralization  above  ex- 
* See  account  of  series  of  capitals  in  final  Appendix. 

Vol.  II.— 17 


258 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


plained  with  respect  to  the  Byzantine  palaces.  There  is  a 
central  shaft,  a pilaster  on  each  side,  and  then  the  wall.  The 
pilaster  has,  by  way  of  capital,  a square  flat  brick,  projecting 
a little,  and  cast,  at  the  edge,  into  the  form  of  the  first  type 
of  all  cornices  ( a , p.  75,  Yol.  I ; the  reader  ought  to  glance 
back  at  this  passage,  if  he  has  forgotten  it) ; and  the  shafts 
and  pilasters  all  stand,  without  any  added  bases,  on  a project- 
ing plinth  of  the  same  simple  profile.  These  windows  have 


been  much  defaced  ; but  I have  not  the  least  doubt  that  their 
plinths  are  the  original  ones  : and  the  whole  group  is  one  of 
the  most  valuable  in  Venice,  as  showing  the  way  in  which  the 
humblest  houses,  in  the  noble  times,  followed  out  the  system 
of  the  larger  palaces,  as  far  as  they  could,  in  their  rude  mate- 
rials. It  is  not  often  that  the  dwellings  of  the  lower  orders 
are  preserved  to  us  from  the  thirteenth  century. 

§ xxxvi.  In  the  two  upper  lines  of  the  opposite  Plate 
(XVII.),  I have  arranged  some  of  the  more  delicate  and  fin- 
ished examples  of  Gothic  work  of  this  period.  Of  these,  fig. 
4 is  taken  from  the  outer  arcade  of  San  Fermo  of  Verona,  to 
show  the  condition  of  mainland  architecture,  from  which  all 
these  Venetian  types  were  borrowed.  This  arch,  together 
with  the  rest  of  the  arcade,  is  wrought  in  fine  stone,  with  a 
band  of  inlaid  red  brick,  the  whole  chiselled  and  fitted  with 
exquisite  precision,  all  Venetian  w^ork  being  coarse  in  com- 


Plate  XYII. — Windows  of  the  Eahly  Gothic  Palaces, 


/ 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


259 


parison.  Throughout  the  streets  of  Yerona,  arches  and  win- 
dows of  the  thirteenth  century  are  of  continual  occurrence, 
wrought,  in  this  manner,  with  brick  and  stone  ; sometimes 
the  brick  alternating  with  the  stones  of  the  arch,  as  in  the 
finished  example  given  in  Plate  XIX.  of  the  first  volume,  and 
there  selected  in  preference  to  other  examples  of  archivolt 
decoration,  because  furnishing  a complete  type  of  the  master 
school  from  which  the  Venetian  Gothic  is  derived. 

§ xxxvii.  The  arch  from  St.  Fermo,  however,  fig.  4,  Plate 
XVIL,  corresponds  more  closely,  in  its  entire  simplicity,  with 
the  little  windows  from  the  Campiello  San  Rocco  ; and  with 
the  type  5 set  beside  it  in  Plate  XVII. , from  a very  ancient 
house  in  the  Corte  del  Forno  at  Santa  Marina  (all  in  brick)  ; 
while  the  upper  examples,  1 and  2,  show  the  use  of  the  fiat 
but  highly  enriched  architrave,  for  the  connection  of  which 
with  Byzantine  work  see  the  final  Appendix,  Vol.  III.,  under 
the  head  “ Archivolt.  ” These  windows  (figs.  1 and  2,  Plate 
XVII.)  are  from  a narrow  alley  in  a part  of  Venice  now  exclu- 
sively inhabited  by  the  lower  orders,  close  to  the  arsenal  ; * 
they  are  entirely  wrought  in  brick,  with  exquisite  mouldings, 
not  cast,  but  moulded  in  the  clay  by  the  hand , so  that  there  is 
not  one  piece  of  the  arch  like  another  ; the  pilasters  and 
shafts  being,  as  usual,  of  stone. 

§ xxxviii.  And  here  let  me  pause  for  a moment,  to  note 
what  one  should  have  thought  was  well  enough  known  in 
England, — yet  I could  not  perhaps  touch  upon  anything  less 
considered, — the  real  use  of  brick.  Our  fields  of  good  clay 
were  never  given  us  to  be  made  into  oblong  morsels  of  one 
size.  They  were  given  us  that  we  might  play  with  them,  and 
that  men  who  could  not  handle  a chisel,  might  knead  out  of 
them  some  expression  of  human  thought.  In  the  ancient 
architecture  of  the  clay  districts  of  Italy,  every  possible 

* If  tlie  traveller  desire  to  find  them  (and  they  are  worth  seeking), 
let  him  row  from  the  Fondamenta  S.  Biagio  down  the  Bio  della  Tana ; and. 
look,  on  his  right,  for  a low  house  with  windows  in  it  like  those  in  the 
woodcut  No.  XXXI.  above,  p.  255.  Let  him  go  in  at  the  door  of  the 
portico  in  the  middle  of  this  house,  and  he  will  find  himself  in  a small 
alley,  with  the  windows  in  question  on  each  side  of  him. 


260 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


adaptation  of  the  material  is  found  exemplified : from  the 
coarsest  and  most  brittle  kinds,  used  in  the  mass  of  the 
structure,  to  bricks  for  arches  and  plinths,  cast  in  the  most 
perfect  curves,  and  of  almost  every  size,  strength,  and  hard- 
ness ; and  moulded  bricks,  wrought  into  flower-work  and 
tracery  as  fine  as  raised  patterns  upon  china.  And,  just  as 
many  of  the  finest  works  of  the  Italian  sculptors  were  exe- 
cuted in  porcelain,  many  of  the  best  thoughts  of  their  archi- 
tects are  expressed  in  brick,  or  in  the  softer  material  of  terra 
cotta ; and  if  this  were  so  in  Italy,  where  there  is  not  one  city 
from  whose  towers  we  may  not  descry  the  blue  outline  of  Alp 
or  Apennine,  everlasting  quarries  of  granite  or  marble,  how 
much  more  ought  it  to  be  so  among  the  fields  of  England  ! 
I believe  that  the  best  academy  for  her  architects,  for  some 
half  century  to  come,  would  be  the  brick-field;  for  of  this 
they  may  rest  assured,  that  till  they  know  how  to  use  clay, 
they  will  never  know  how  to  use  marble. 

§ xxxix.  And  now  observe,  as  we  pass  from  fig.  2 to  fig.  3, 
and  from  fig.  5 to  fig.  6,  in  Plate  XVII.,  a most  interesting  step 
of  transition.  As  we  saw  above,  § xrv.,  the  round  arch  yield- 
ing to  the  Gothic,  by  allowing  a point  to  emerge  at  its  sum- 
mit, so  here  we  have  the  Gothic  conceding  something  to  the 
form  which  had  been  assumed  by  the  round ; and  itself 
slightly  altering  its  outline  so  as  to  meet  the  condescension 
of  the  round  arch  half  way.  At  page  142  of  the  first  volume, 
I have  drawn  to  scale  one  of  these  minute  concessions  of  the 
pointed  arch,  granted  at  Verona  out  of  pure  courtesy  to  the 
Venetian  forms,  by  one  of  the  purest  Gothic  ornaments  in  the 
world  ; and  the  small  window  here,  fig.  6,  is  a similar  example 
at  Venice  itself,  from  the  Campo  Santa  Maria  Mater  Domini, 
where  the  reversed  curve  at  the  head  of  the  pointed  arch  is 
just  perceptible  and  no  more.  The  other  examples,  figs.  3 and 
7,  the  first  from  a small  but  very  noble  house  in  the  Merceria, 
the  second  from  an  isolated  palace  at  Murano,  show  more 
advanced  conditions  of  the  reversed  curve,  which,  though  still 
employing  the  broad  decorated  architrave  of  the  earlier  exam- 
ples, are  in  all  other  respects  prepared  for  the  transition  to  the 
simple  window  of  the  fifth  order. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


261 


§ xl.  The  next  example,  the  uppermost  of  the  three  lowei 
series  in  Plate  XVII.,  shows  this  order  in  its  early  purity  ; 
associated  with  intermediate  decorations  like  those  of  the 
Byzantines,  from  a palace  once  belonging  to  the  Erizzo  family, 
near  the  Arsenal.  The  ornaments  appear  to  be  actually  of 
Greek  workmanship  (except,  perhaps,  the  two  birds  over  the 
central  arch,  which  are  bolder,  and  more  free  in  treatment), 
and  built  into  the  Gothic  fronts  ; showing,  however,  the  early 
date  of  the  whole  by  the  manner  of  their  insertion,  corre- 
sponding exactly  with  that  employed  in  the  Byzantine  palaces, 
and  by  the  covering  of  the  intermediate  spaces  with  sheets  of 
marble,  which,  however,  instead  of  being  laid  over  the  entire 
wall,  are  now  confined  to  the  immediate  spaces  between  and 
above  the  windows,  and  are  bounded  by  a dentil  mould- 
ing. 

In  the  example  below  this  the  Byzantine  ornamentation  has 
vanished,  and  the  fifth  order  window  is  seen  in  its  generic 
form,  as  commonly  employed  throughout  the  early  Gothic 
period.  Such  arcades  are  of  perpetual  occurrence  ; the  one 
in  the  Plate  was  taken  from  a small  palace  on  the  Grand 
Canal,  nearly  opposite  the  Casa  Foscari.  One  point  in  it  de- 
serves especial  notice,  the  increased  size  of  the  lateral  window 
as  compared  with  the  rest  : a circumstance  which  occurs  in 
a great  number  of  the  groups  of  windows  belonging  to  this 
period,  and  for  which  I have  never  been  able  to  account. 

§ xli.  Both  these  figures  have  been  most  carefully  en- 
graved ; and  the  uppermost  will  give  the  reader  a perfectly 
faithful  idea  of  the  general  effect  of  the  Byzantine  sculptures, 
and  of  the  varied  alabaster  among  which  they  are  inlaid,  as 
well  as  of  the  manner  in  which  these  pieces  are  set  together, 
every  joint  having  been  drawn  on  the  spot : and  the  transition 
from  the  embroidered  and  silvery  richness  of  this  architecture, 
in  which  the  Byzantine  ornamentation  was  associated  with  the 
Gothic  form  of  arch,  to  the  simplicity  of  the  pure  Gothic 
arcade  as  seen  in  the  lower  figure,  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able phenomena  in  the  history  of  Venetian  art.  If  it  had 
occurred  suddenly,  and  at  an  earlier  period,  it  might  have 
been  traced  partly  to  the  hatred  of  the  Greeks,  consequent 


262 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


upon  the  treachery  of  Manuel  Comnenus,*  and  the  fatal  war 
to  which  it  led  ; but  the  change  takes  place  gradually,  and  not 
till  a much  later  period.  I hoped  to  have  been  able  to  make 
some  careful  inquiries  into  the  habits  of  domestic  life  of  the 
Venetians  before  and  after  the.  dissolution  of  their  friendly 
relations  with  Constantinople  ; but  the  labor  necessary  for  the 
execution  of  my  more  immediate  task  has  entirely  prevented 
this  : and  I must  be  content  to  lay  the  succession  of  the  archi- 
tectural styles  plainly  before  the  reader,  and  leave  the  collat- 
eral questions  to  the  investigation  of  others  ; merely  noting 
this  one  assured  fact,  that  the  root  of  all  that  is  greatest  in 
Christian  art  is  struck  in  the  thirteenth  century  ; that  the  tem- 
per of  that  century  is  the  life-blood  of  all  manly  work  thence- 
forward in  Europe  ; and  I suppose  that  one  of  its  peculiar 
characteristics  was  elsewhere,  as  assuredly  in  Florence,  a 
singular  simplicity  in  domestic  life  : 

“ I saw  Bellincion  Berti  walk  abroad 
In  leathern  girdle,  and  a clasp  of  bone  ; 

And,  with  no  artful  coloring  on  her  cheeks, 

His  lady  leave  the  glass.  The  sons  I saw 
Of  Verli  and  of  Vecchio,  well  content 
With  unrobed  jerkin,  and  their  good  dames  handling 
The  spindle  and  the  flax. 

One  waked  to  tend  the  cradle,  hushing  it 
With  sounds  that  lulled  the  parents’  infancy  ; 

Another,  with  her  maidens,  drawing  off 
The  tresses  from  the  distaff,  lectured  them 
Old  tales  of  Troy,  and  Fesole,  and  Borne.”  f 

* The  bitterness  of  feeling  with  which  the  Venetians  must  have  re* 
membered  this,  was  probably  the  cause  of  their  magnificent  heroism  in 
the  final  siege  of  the  city  under  Dandolo,  and,  partly,  of  the  excesses 
which  disgraced  their  victory.  The  conduct  of  the  allied  army  of  the 
Crusaders  on  this  occasion  cannot,  however,  be  brought  in  evidence  oc 
general  barbarism  in  the  thirteenth  century : first,  because  the  masses 
of  the  crusading  armies  were  in  great  part  composed  of  the  refuse  of  the 
nations  of  Europe  ; and  secondly,  because  such  a mode  of  argument 
might  lead  us  to  inconvenient  conclusions  respecting  ourselves,  so  long 
as  the  horses  of  the  Austrian  cavalry  are  stabled  in  the  cloister  of  the 
convent  which  contains  the  Last  Supper  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  See 
Appendix  3,  Vol.  III.  : “ Austrian  Government  in  Italy.” 

f It  is  generally  better  to  read  ten  lines  of  any  poet  in  the  original 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


263 


§ xlii.  Such,  then,  is  the  simple  fact  at  Venice,  that  from 
the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century  there  is  found  a sin- 
gular increase  of  simplicity  in  all  architectural  ornamentation  ; 
the  rich  Byzantine  capitals  giving  place  to  a pure  and  severe 
type  hereafter  to  be  described,*  and  the  rich  sculptures  vanish- 
ing from  the  walls,  nothing  but  the  marble  facing  remaining. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  examples  of  this  transitional  state 
is  a palace  at  San  Severo,  just  behind  the  Casa  Zorzi.  This 
latter  is  a Renaissance  building,  utterly  worthless  in  every 
respect,  but  known  to  the  Venetian  Ciceroni  ; and  by  inquir- 
ing for  it,  and  passing  a little  beyond  it  down  the  Fondamenta 
San  Severo,  the  traveller  will  see,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
canal,  a palace  which  the  Ciceroni  never  notice,  but  which  is 
unique  in  Venice  for  the  magnificence  of  the  veined  purple 
alabasters  with  which  it  has  been  decorated,  and  for  the  manly 
simplicity  of  the  foliage  of  its  capitals.  Except  in  these,  it 
has  no  sculpture  whatever,  and  its  effect  is  dependent  entirely 
on  color.  Disks  of  green  serpentine  are  inlaid  on  the  field 
of  purple  alabaster  ; and  the  pillars  are  alternately  of  red 
marble  with  white  capitals,  and  of  white  marble  with  red 
capitals.  Its  windows  appear  of  the  third  order  ; and  the  back 
of  the  palace,  in  a small  and  most  picturesque  court,  shows  a 
group  of  windows  which  are,  perhaps,  the  most  superb  ex- 
amples of  that  order  in  Venice.  But  the  windows  to  the  front 
have,  I think,  been  of  the  fifth  order,  and  their  cusps  have 
been  cut  away. 

§ xliii.  When  the  Gothic  feeling  began  more  decidedly  to 
language,  however  painfully,  than  ten  cantos  of  a translation.  But  an 
exception  may  be  made  in  favor  of  Cary’s  Dante.  If  no  poet  ever  was 
liable  to  lose  more  in  translation,  none  was  ever  so  carefully  translated  ; 
and  I hardly  know  whether  most  to  admire  the  rigid  fidelity,  or  the 
sweet  and  solemn  harmony,  of  Cary’s  verse.  There  is  hardly  a fault  in 
the  fragment  quoted  above,  except  the  word  “ lectured,”  for  Dante's 
beautiful  “ favoleggiava  ; ” and  even  in  this  case,  joining  the  first  words 
of  the  following  line,  the  translation  is  strictly  literal.  It  is  true  that 
the  conciseness  and  the  rivulet-like  melody  of  Dante  must  continually 
be  lost ; but  if  I could  only  read  English,  and  had  to  choose,  for  a li- 
brary narrowed  by  poverty,  between  Cary’s  Dante  and  our  own  original 
Milton,  I should  choose  Cary  without  an  instant’s  pause. 

* See  final  Appendix,  Vol.  III.,  under  head  “Capitals.” 


204 


TI1E  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


establish  itself,  it  evidently  became  a question  with  the  Vene« 
tian  builders,  how  the  intervals  between  the  arches,  now  left 
blank  by  the  abandonment  of  the  Byzantine  sculptures,  should 
be  enriched  in  accordance  with  the  principles  of  the  new 
school.  Two  most  important  examples  are  left  of  the  experi- 
ments made  at  this  period  : one  at  the  Ponte  del  Forner,  at 
San  Cassano,  a noble  house  in  which  the  spandrils  of  the  win- 
dows are  filled  by  the  emblems  of  the  four  Evangelists,  sculpt- 
ured in  deep  relief,  and  touching  the  edges  of  the  arches 
with  their  expanded  wings  ; the  other  now  known  as  the  Pa- 
lazzo Cicogna,  near  the  church  of  San  Sebastiano,  in  the 
quarter  called  “of  the  Archangel  Raphael,”  in  which  a large 
space  of  wall  above  the  windows  is  occupied  by  an  intricate 
but  rude  tracery  of  involved  quatrefoils.  Of  both  these  palaces 
I purposed  to  give  drawings  in  my  folio  work ; but  I shall 
probably  be  saved  the  trouble  by  the  publication  of  the  beau- 
tiful calotypes  lately  made  at  Venice  of  both  ; and  it  is  un- 
necessary to  represent  them  here,  as  they  are  unique  in  Vene- 
tian architecture,  with  the  single  exception  of  an  unimportant- 
imitation  of  the  first  of  them  in  a little  by-street  close  to  the 
Campo  Sta.  Maria  Formosa.  For  the  question  as  to  the  mode 
of  decorating  the  interval  between  the  arches  was  suddenly 
and  irrevocably  determined  by  the  builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
who,  as  we  have  seen,  taking  his  first  idea  from  the  traceries 
of  the  Frari,  and  arranging  those  traceries  as  best  fitted  his 
own  purpose,  designed  the  great  arcade  (the  lowest  of  the 
three  in  Plate  XVII.),  which  thenceforward  became  the  estab- 
lished model  for  every  work  of  importance  in  Venice.  The 
palaces  built  on  this  model,  however,  most  of  them  not  till 
the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century,  belong  properly  to  the 
time  of  the  Renaissance  ; and  what  little  we  have  to  note  re- 
specting them  may  be  more  clearly  stated  in  connexion  with 
other  facts  characteristic  of  that  period. 

§ xliv.  As  the  examples  in  Plate  XVII.  are  necessarily  con- 
fined to  the  upper  parts  of  the  windows,  I have  given  in  the 
Plate  opposite  (XVIII.*)  examples  of  the  fifth  order  window, 

* This  Plate  is  not  from  a drawing  of  mine.  It  has  been  engraved  by 
Mr.  Armytage,  with  great  skill,  from  two  daguerreotypes. 


Plate  XVIII. — Windows  of  the  Fifth  Order. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


265 


both  in  its  earliest  and  in  its  fully  developed  form,  completed 
from  base  to  keystone.  The  upper  example  is  a beautiful 
group  from  a small  house,  never  of  any  size  or  pretension, 
and  now  inhabited  only  by  the  poor,  in  the  Campiello  della 
Strope,  close  to  the  Church  of  San  Giacomo  de  Lorio.  It  is 
remarkable  for  its  excessive  purity  of  curve,  and  is  of  very 
early  date,  its  mouldings  being  simpler  than  usual. 'j*  The 

lower  example  is  from  the  second  story  of  a palace  belonging 
to  the  Priuli  family,  near  San  Lorenzo,  and  shows  one  feature 
to  which  our  attention  has  not  hitherto  been  directed,  namely, 
the  penetration  of  the  cusp,  leaving  only  a silver  thread  of 
stone  traced  on  the  darkness  of  the  window.  I need  not  say 
that,  in  this  condition,  the  cusp  ceases  to  have  any  construc- 
tive use,  and  is  merely  decorative,  but  often  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful. The  steps  of  transition  from  the  early  solid  cusp  to  this 
slender  thread  are  noticed  in  the  final  Appendix,  under  the 
head  “ Tracery  Bars  ; ” the  commencement  of  the  change  be- 
ing in  the  thinning  of  the  stone,  which  is  not  cut  through 
until  it  is  thoroughly  emaciated.  Generally  speaking,  the 
condition  in  which  the  cusp  is  found  is  a useful  test  of  age, 
when  compared  with  other  points  ; the  more  solid  it  is,  the 
more  ancient : but  the  massive  form  is  often  found  associated 
with  the  perforated,  as  late  as  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  In  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  lower  or  bearing  traceries 
have  the  solid  cusp,  and  the  upper  traceries  of  the  windows, 
which  are  merely  decorative,  have  the  perforated  cusp,  both 
with  exquisite  effect. 

§ xlv.  The  smaller  balconies  between  the  great  shafts  in  the 
lower  example  in  Plate  XVIII.  are  original  and  characteristic : 
not  so  the  lateral  one  of  the  detached  window,  which  has 
been  restored  ; but  by  imagining  it  to  be  like  that  represented 
in  fig.  1,  Plate  XIII.,  above,  which  is  a perfect  window  of  the 
finest  time  of  the  fifth  order,  the  reader  will  be  unable  to 
form  a complete  idea  of  the  external  appearance  of  the  prin- 
cipal apartments  in  the  house  of  a noble  of  Venice,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  fourteenth  century. 

§ xl vi.  Whether  noble,  or  merchant,  or,  as  frequently  hap- 
* Vide  final  Appendix,  under  head  “ Archivolt.” 


266 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


pened,  both,  every  Venetian  appears,  at  this  time,  to  have 
raised  his  palace  or  dwelling-house  upon  one  type.  Under 
every  condition  of  importance,  through  every  variation  of 
size,  the  forms  and  mode  of  decoration  of  all  the  features 
were  universally  alike  ; not  servilely  alike,  but  fraternally ; 
not  with  the  sameness  of  coins  cast  from  one  mould,  but  with 
the  likeness  of  the  members  of  one  family.  No  fragment  of 
the  period  is  preserved,  in  which  the  windows,  be  they  few 
or  many,  a group  of  three  or  an  arcade  of  thirty,  have  not 
the  noble  cuspecl  arch  of  the  fifth  order.  And  they  are  es- 
pecially to  be  noted  by  us  at  this  day,  because  these  refined 
and  richly  ornamented  forms  were  used  in  the  habitations  of 
a nation  as  laborious,  as  practical,  as  brave,  and  as  prudent  as 
ourselves  ; and  they  were  built  at  a time  when  that  nation 
was  struggling  with  calamities  and  changes  threatening  its 
existence  almost  every  hour.  And,  farther,  they  are  interest- 
ing because  perfectly  applicable  to  modern  habitation.  The 
refinement  of  domestic  life  appears  to  have  been  far  advanced 
in  Venice  from  her  earliest  days  ; and  the  remains  of  her 
Gothic  palaces  are,  at  this  day,  the  most  delightful  residences 
in  the  city,  having  undergone  no  change  in  external  form,  and 
probably  having  been  rather  injured  than  rendered  more  con- 
venient by  the  modifications  which  poverty  and  Renaissance 
taste,  contending  with  the  ravages  of  time,  have  introduced 
in  the  interiors.  So  that,  in  Venice,  and  the  cities  grouped 
around  it,  Vicenza,  Padua,  and  Verona,  the  traveller  may  as- 
certain, by  actual  experience,  the  effect  which  would  be  pro- 
duced upon  the  comfort  or  luxury  of  daily  life  by  the  revival 
of  the  Gothic  school  of  architecture.  He  can  still  stand  upon 
the  marble  balcony  in  the  soft  summer  air,  and  feel  its  smooth 
surface  warm  from  the  noontide  as  he  leans  on  it  in  the  twi- 
light ; he  can  still  see  the  strong  sweep  of  the  unruined 
traceries  drawn  on  the  deep  serenity  of  the  starry  sky,  and 
watch  the  fantastic  shadows  of  the  clustered  arches  shorten 
in  the  moonlight  on  the  chequered  floor  ; or  he  may  close  the 
casements  fitted  to  their  unshaken  shafts  against  such  wintry 
winds  as  would  have  made  an  English  house  vibrate  to  its 
foundation,  and,  in  either  case,  compare  their  influence  on  his 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


267 


daily  home  feeling  with  that  of  the  square  openings  in  his 
English  wall. 

§ xl vii.  And  let  him  be  assured,  if  he  find  there  is  more 
to  be  enjoyed  in  the  Gothic  window,  there  is  also  more  to  be 
trusted.  It  is  the  best  and  strongest  building,  as  it  is  the 
most  beautiful.  I am  not  now  speaking  of  the  particular 
form  of  Venetian  Gothic,  but  of  the  general  strength  of  the 
pointed  arch  as  opposed  to  that  of  the  level  lintel  of  the 
square  window ; and  I plead  for  the  introduction  of  the 
Gothic  form  into  our  domestic  architecture,  not  merely  be- 
cause it  is  lovely,  but  because  it  is  the  only  form  of  faithful, 
strong,  enduring,  and  honorable  building,  in  such  materials  as 
come  daily  to  our  hands.  By  increase  of  scale  and  cost,  it  is 
possible  to  build,  in  any  style,  what  will  last  for  ages  ; but 
only  in  the  Gothic  is  it  possible  to  give  security  and  dignity 
to  work  wrought  with  imperfect  means  and  materials.  And 
I trust  that  there  will  come  a time  when  the  English  people 
may  see  the  folly  of  building  basely  and  insecurely.  It  is 
common  with  those  architects  against  whose  practice  my  writ- 
ings have  hitherto  been  directed,  to  call  them  merely  theo- 
retical and  imaginative.  I answer,  that  there  is  not  a single 
principle  asserted  either  in  the  “ Seven  Lamps  ” or  here,  but 
is  of  the  simplest,  sternest  veracity,  and  the  easiest  practical 
bility ; that  buildings,  raised  as  I would  have  them,  would 
stand  unshaken  for  a thousand  years  ; and  the  buildings 
raised  by  the  architects  who  oppose  them  will  not  stand  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty,  they  sometimes  do  not  stand  for  an 
hour.  There  is  hardly  a week  passes  without  some  catas- 
trophe brought  about  by  the  base  principles  of  modern  build- 
ings ; some  vaultless  floor  that  drops  the  staggering  crowd 
through  the  jagged  rents  of  its  rotten  timbers  ; some  baseless 
bridge  that  is  washed  away  by  the  first  wave  of  a summer 
flood ; some  fungous  wall  of  nascent  rottenness  that  a thunder- 
shower soaks  down  with  its  workmen  into  a heap  of  slime 
and  death.*  These  we  hear  of,  day  by  day  : yet  these  indi- 

* ‘‘On  Thursday,  the  20th,  the  front  walls  of  two  of  the  new  houses 
now  building  in  Victoria  Street,  Westminster,  fell  to  the  ground.  . . . 
The  roof  was  on,  and  a massive  compo  cornice  was  put  up  at  top,  as  well 


268 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


cate  but  the  thousandth  part  of  the  evil.  The  portion  of  the 
national  income  sacrificed  in  mere  bad  building,  in  the  per- 
petual repairs,  and  swift  condemnation  and  pulling  down  of 
ill-built  shells  of  houses,  passes  all  calculation.  And  the 
weight  of  the  penalty  is  not  yet  felt ; it  will  tell  upon  our 
children  some  fifty  years  hence,  when  the  cheap  work,  and 
contract  work,  and  stucco  and  plaster  work,  and  bad  iron 
work,  and  all  the  other  expedients  of  modern  rivalry,  vanity, 
and  dishonesty,  begin  to  show  themselves  for  what  they  are. 

§ xlviii.  Indeed,  dishonesty  and  false  economy  will  no  more 
build  safely  in  Gothic  than  in  any  other  style : but  of  all  forms 
which  we  could  possibly  employ,  to  be  framed  hastily  and  out 
of  bad  materials,  the  common  square  window  is  the  worst ; 
and  its  level  head  of  brickwork  (a,  Fig.  XXXV. ) is  the  weakest 
way  of  covering  a space.  Indeed,  in  the  hastily  heaped  shells 
of  modern  houses,  there  may  be  seen  often  even  a worse  man- 
ner of  placing  the  bricks,  as  at  b , supporting  them  by  a bit 
of  lath  till  the  mortar  dries  ; but  even  when  worked  with  the 
utmost  care,  and  having  every  brick  tapered 
into  the  form  of  a voussoir  and  accurately 
fitted,  I have  seen  such  a window-head  give 
way,  and  a wide  fissure  torn  through  all  the 
brickwork  above  it,  two  years  after  it  was 
built ; while  the  pointed  arch  of  the  Veronese 
Gothic,  wrought  in  brick  also,  occurs  at  every 
corner  of  the  streets  of  the  city,  untouched 
since  the  thirteenth  century,  and  without  a 
single  flaw. 

§ xlix.  Neither  can  the  objection,  so  often  raised  against 
the  pointed  arch,  that  it  will  not  admit  the  convenient  adjust- 
ment of  modern  sashes  and  glass,  hold  for  an  instant.  There 
is  not  the  smallest  necessity,  because  the  arch  is  pointed,  that 


zzz 


a 


smm 

t, 

Fig.  XXXV. 


as  dressings  to  the  upper  windows.  The  roof  is  formed  by  girders  and 
4|-brick  arches  in  cement,  covered  with  asphalt  to  form  a flat.  The 
failure  is  attributed  to  the  quantity  of  rain  which  has  fallen.  Others 
suppose  that  some  of  the  girders  were  defective,  and  gave  way,  carrying 
the  walls  with  them.” — Builder , for  January  29th,  1853.  The  rest  of 
this  volume  might  be  filled  with  such  notices,  if  we  sought  for  them. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


269 


the  aperture  should  be  so.  The  work  of  the  arch  is  to  sustain 
the  building  above  ; when  this  is  once  done  securely,  the 
pointed  head  of  it  may  be  filled  in  any  way  we  choose.  In 
the  best  cathedral  doors  it  is  always  filled  by  a shield  of  solid 
stone  ; in  many  early  windows  of  the  best  Gothic  it  is  filled  in 
the  same  manner,  the  introduced  slab  of  stone  becoming  a 
field  for  rich  decoration  ; and  there  is  not  the  smallest  reason 
wrhy  lancet  windows,  used  in  bold  groups,  with  each  pointed 
arch  filled  by  a sculptured  tympanum,  should  not  allow  as 
much  light  to  enter,  and  in  as  convenient  a way,  as  the  most 
luxuriously  glazed  square  windows  of  our  brick  houses.  Give 
the  groups  of  associated  lights  bold  gabled  canopies  ; charge 
the  gables  with  sculpture  and  color  ; and  instead  of  the  base 
and  almost  useless  Greek  portico,  letting  the  rain  and  w7ind 
enter  it  at  will,  build  the  steeply  vaulted  and  completely  shel- 
tered Gothic  porch  ; and  on  all  these  fields  for  rich  decoration 
let  the  common  workman  carve  what  he  pleases,  to  the  best 
of  his  power,  and  we  may  have  a school  of  domestic  architect- 
ure in  the  nineteenth  century,  which  will  make  our  children 
grateful  to  us,  and  proud  of  us,  till  the  thirtieth. 

§ l.  There  remains  only  one  important  feature  to  be  ex- 
amined, the  entrance  gate  or  door.  We  have  already  observed 
that  the  one  seems  to  pass  into  the  other,  a sign  of  increased 
love  of  privacy  rather  than  of  increased  humility,  as  the  Gothic 
palaces  assume  their  perfect  form.  In  the  Byzantine  palaces 
the  entrances  appear  always  to  have  been  rather  great  gates 
than  doors,  magnificent  semicircular  arches  opening  to  the 
water,  and  surrounded  by  rich  sculpture  in  the  archivolts. 
One  of  these  entrances  is  seen  in  the  small  wood-cut  above. 
Pig.  XXV.,  and  another  has  been  given  carefully  in  my  folio 
work  : their  sculpture  is  generally  of  grotesque  animals  scat- 
tered among  leafage,  without  any  definite  meaning  ; but  the 
great  outer  entrance  of  St.  Mark’s,  which  appears  to  have  been 
completed  some  time  after  the  rest  of  the  fabric,  differs  from 
all  others  in  presenting  a series  of  subjects  ajtqgeth,er  Gothic 
in  feeling,  selection,  and  vitality  of  execution,  and  which  show 
the  occult  entrance  of  the  Gothic  spirit  before  it  had  yet  suc- 
ceeded in  effecting  any  modification  pf  the  Byzantine  forms. 


270 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


These  sculptures  represent  the  months  of  the  year  employed 
in  the  avocations  usually  attributed  to  them  throughout  the 
whole  compass  of  the  middle  ages,  in  Northern  architecture 
and  manuscript  calendars,  and  at  last  exquisitely  versified  by 
Spenser.  For  the  sake  of  the  traveller  in  Venice,  who  should 
examine  this  archivolt  carefully,  I shall  enumerate  these  sculpt- 
ures in  their  order,  noting  such  parallel  representations  as  I 
remember  in  other  work. 

§ li.  There  are  four  successive  archivolts,  one  within  the 
other,  forming  the  great  central  entrance  of  St.  Mark’s.  The 
first  is  a magnificent  external  arch,  formed  of  obscure  figures 
mingled  among  masses  of  leafage,  as  in  ordinary  Byzantine 
work  ; within  this  there  is  a hemispherical  dome,  covered  with 
modern  mosaic  ; and  at  the  back  of  this  recess  the  other  three 
archivolts  follow  consecutively,  two  sculptured,  one  plain  ; the 
one  with  which  we  are  concerned  is  the  outermost. 

It  is  carved  both  on  its  front  and  under-surface  or  soffit ; 
on  the  front  are  seventeen  female  figures  bearing  scrolls,  from 
wrhich  the  legends  are  unfortunately  effaced.  These  figures 
were  once  gilded  on  a dark  blue  ground,  as  may  still  be  seen 
in  Gentile  Bellini’s  picture  of  St.  Mark’s  in  the  Accademia 
delle  Belle  Arti.  The  sculptures  of  the  months  are  on  the 
under- surface,  beginning  at  the  bottom  on  the  left  hand  of  the 
spectator  as  he  enters,  and  following  in  succession  round  the 
archivolt ; separated,  however,  into  two  groups,  at  its  centre, 
by  a beautiful  figure  of  the  youthful  Christ,  sitting  in  the 
midst  of  a slightly  hollowed  sphere  covered  with  stars  to  rep- 
resent the  firmament,  and  with  the  attendant  sun  and  moon, 
set  one  on  each  side  to  rule  over  the  day  and  over  the 
night. 

§ ui.  The  months  are  personified  as  follows  : — 

1.  January.  Carrying  home  a noble  tree  on  his  shoulders , the 
leafage  of  ivhich  nods  forwards , and  falls  nearly  to  his  feet . 
Superbly  cut.  This  is  a rare  representation  of  him.  More 
frequently  he  is  represented  as  the  two-headed  Janus,  sitting 
at  a table,  drinking  at  one  mouth  and  eating  at  the  other. 
Sometimes  as  an  old  man,  warming  his  feet  at  a fire,  and 
drinking  from  a bowl ; though  this  type  is  generally  reserved 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


271 


for  February.  Spenser,  however,  gives  the  same  symbol  as 
that  on  St.  Mark’s : 

“Numbd  with  holding  all  the  day 
An  hatchet  keene,  with  which  he  felled  wood.” 

His  sign,  Aquarius,  is  obscurely  indicated  in  the  arcliivolt 
by  some  wavy  lines  representing  water,  unless  the  figure  has 
been  broken  away. 

2.  February.  Sitting  in  a carved  chair , warming  his  hare  feet 
at  a blazing  fire . Generally,  when  he  is  thus  represented, 
there  is  a pot  hung  over  the  fire,  from  the  top  of  the  chimney. 
Sometimes  he  is  pruning  trees,  as  in  Spenser  : 

“ Yet  had  ho  hy  his  side 
His  plough  and  harnesse  fit  to  till  tho  ground, 

And  tooles  to  prune  the  trees.” 

Not  unfrequently,  in  the  calendars,  this  month  is  represented 
by  a female  figure  carrying  candles,  in  honor  of  the  Purifica- 
tion of  the  Virgin. 

His  sign,  Pisces,  is  prominently  carved  above  him. 

3.  March.  Here,  as  almost  always  in  Italy,  a warrior : the 
Mars  of  the  Latins  being  of  course,  in  mediaeval  work,  made 
representative  of  the  military  power  of  the  place  and  period ; 
and  thus,  at  Venice,  having  the  winged  Lion  painted  upon 
his  shield.  In  Northern  work,  however,  I think  March  is 
commonly  employed  in  pruning  trees ; or,  at  least,  he  is  so 
when  that  occupation  is  left  free  for  him  by  February’s  being 
engaged  with  the  ceremonies  of  Candlemas.  Sometimes,  also, 
he  is  reaping  a low  and  scattered  kind  of  grain  ; and  by 
Spenser,  who  exactly  marks  the  junction  of  mediaeval  and 
classical  feeling,  his  military  and  agricultural  functions  are 
united,  while  also,  in  the  Latin  manner,  he  is  made  the  first  of 
the  months. 

“ First  sturdy  March,  with  brows  full  sternly  bent, 

And  armed  strongly,  rode  upon  a Ram, 

The  same  which  over  Hcllespontus  swam  ; 

Yet  in  his  hand  a spade  he  also  hont, 

And  in  a bag  all  sorts  of  seeds  ysame,* 

Which  on  the  earth  he  strowed  as  he  went.  ” 


* “Ysame,”  collected  together. 


272 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 1 


His  sign,  the  Ram,  is  very  superbly  carved  above  him  in 
the  archivolt. 

4.  April.  Here,  carrying  a sheep  upon  his  shoulder . A 
rare  representation  of  him.  In  Northern  work  he  is  almost 
universally  gathering  flowers,  or  holding  them  triumphantly 
in  each  hand.  The  Spenserian  mingling  of  this  mediaeval 
image  with  that  of  his  being  wet  with  showers,  and  wanton 
with  love,  by  turning  his  zodiacal  sign,  Taurus,  into  the  bull 
of  Europa,  is  altogether  exquisite. 

“Upon  a Bull  lie  rode,  the  same  which  led 
Europa  floating  through  the  Argolick  fluds : 

His  horns  were  gilden  all  with  golden  studs, 

And  garnished  with  garlonds  goodly  dight 

Of  all  the  fairest  flowres  and  freshest  buds 

Which  th’  earth  brings  forth  ; and  wet  lie  seemed  in  sight 

With  waves , through  which  he  waded  for  his  love's  delight .” 

5.  May  is  seated , while  two  young  maidens  crown  him  with 
flowers . A very  unusual  representation,  even  in  Italy  ; where, 
as  in  the  North,  he  is  almost  always  riding  out  hunting  or 
hawking,  sometimes  playing  on  a musical  instrument.  In 
Spenser,  this  month  is  personified  as  “ the  fayrest  mayd  on 
ground/'  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  the  Twins. 

In  this  archivolt  there  are  only  two  heads  to  represent  the 
zodiacal  sign. 

The  summer  and  autumnal  months  are  always  represented 
in  a series  of  agricultural  occupations,  which,  of  course,  vary 
with  the  locality  in  which  they  occur  ; but  generally  in  their 
order  only.  Thus,  if  June  is  mowing,  July  is  reaping  ; if 
July  is  mowing,  August  is  reaping  ; and  so  on.  I shall  give 
a parallel  view  of  some  of  these  varieties  presently  ; but,  mean- 
time, we  had  better  follow  the  St.  Mark's  series,  as  it  is  pecu- 
liar in  some  respects. 

6.  June.  Reaping . The  corn  and  sickle  sculptured  with 
singular  care  and  precision,  in  bold  relief,  and  the  zodiacal 
sign,  the  Crab,  above,  also  worked  with  great  spirit.  Spenser 
puts  plough  irons  into  his  hand.  Sometimes  he  is  sheep- 
shearing ; and,  in  English  and  northern  French  manuscripts, 


GOTHIC  PALACES . 273 

carrying  a kind  of  fagot  or  barrel,  of  the  meaning  of  which  I 
am  not  certain. 

7.  July.  Mowing . A very  interesting  piece  of  sculpture, 
owing  to  the  care  with  which  the  flowers  are  wrought  out 
among  the  long  grass.  I do  not  remember  ever  finding  July 
but  either  reaping  or  mowing.  Spenser  works  him  hard,  and 
puts  him  to  both  labors  : 

“ Behinde  his  backe  a sithe,  and  by  his  side 
Under  his  belt  he  bore  a sickle  circling  wide.” 

8.  August.  Peculiarly  represented  in  this  archivolt,  sitting 
in  a chair , with  his  head  upon  his  hand , as  if  asleep  ; the  Virgin 
(the  zodiacal  sign)  above  him , lifting  up  her  hand.  This  ap- 
pears to  be  a peculiarly  Italian  version  of  the  proper  employ- 
ment of  August.  In  Northern  countries  he  is  generally 
threshing,  or  gathering  grapes.  Spenser  merely  clothes  him 
with  gold,  and  makes  him  lead  forth 

“the  righteous  Virgin,  which  of  old 
Lived  here  on  earth,  and  plenty  made  abound.” 

9.  September.  Bearing  home  grapes  in  a basket . Almost 
always  sowing,  in  Northern  work.  By  Spenser,  with  his 
usual  exquisite  ingenuity,  employed  in  gathering  in  the 
general  harvest,  and  portioning  it  out  with  the  Scales , his 
zodiacal  sign. 

10.  October.  Wearing  a conical  hat , and  digging  busily  with 
a long  spade.  In  Northern  work  he  is  sometimes  a vintager, 
sometimes  beating  the  acorns  out  of  an  oak  to  feed  swine. 
When  September  is  vintaging,  October  is  generally  sowing. 
Spenser  employs  him  in  the  harvest  both  of  vine  and  olive. 

11.  November.  Seems  to  be  catching  small  birds  in  a net . 
I do  not  remember  him  so  employed  elsewhere.  He  is  nearly 
always  killing  pigs  ; sometimes  beating  the  oak  for  them ; 
with  Spenser,  fatting  them. 

12.  December.  Killing  swine.  It  is  hardly  ever  that  this 
employment  is  not  given  to  one  or  other  of  the  terminal 

Vol.  II.— 18 


274 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 


months  of  the  year.  If  not  so  engaged,  December  is  usually 
putting  new  loaves  into  the  oven  ; sometimes  killing  oxen. 
Spenser  properly  makes  him  feasting  and  drinking  instead  of 
January. 

§ Lin.  On  the  next  page  I have  given  a parallel  view  of  the 
employment  of  the  months  from  some  Northern  manuscripts, 
in  order  that  they  may  be  more  conveniently  compared  with 
the  sculptures  of  St.  Mark’s,  in  their  expression  of  the  varie- 
ties of  climate  and  agricultural  system.  Observe  that  the 
letter  (f.)  in  some  of  the  columns,  opposite  the  month  of  May, 
means  that  he  has  a falcon  on  his  fist ; being,  in  those  cases, 
represented  as  riding  out,  in  high  exultation,  on  a caparisoned 
white  horse.  A series  nearly  similar  to  that  of  St.  Mark’s 
occurs  on  the  door  of  the  Cathedral  of  Lucca,  and  on  that 
of  the  Baptistery  of  Pisa ; in  which,  however,  if  I recollect 
rightly,  February  is  fishing,  and  May  has  something  resem- 
bling an  umbrella  in  his  hand,  instead  of  a hawk.  But,  in  all 
cases,  the  figures  are  treated  with  the  peculiar  spirit  of  the 
Gothic  sculptors  ; and  this  archivolt  is  the  first  expression  of 
that  spirit  which  is  to  be  found  in  Venice. 

§ liv.  In  the  private  palaces,  the  entrances  soon  admitted 
some  concession  to  the  Gothic  form  also.  They  pass  through 
nearly  the  same  conditions  of  change  as  the  windows,  with 
these  three  differences  : first,  that  no  arches  of  the  fantastic 
fourth  order  occur  in  any  doorways  ; secondly,  that  the  pure 
pointed  arch  occurs  earlier,  and  much  oftener,  in  doorways 
than  in  window-heads  ; lastly,  that  the  entrance  itself,  if  small, 
is  nearly  always  square-headed  in  the  earliest  examples,  with- 
out any  arch  above,  but  afterwards  the  arch  is  thrown  across 
above  the  lintel.  The  interval  between  the  two,  or  tympanum, 
is  filled  with  sculpture,  or  closed  by  iron  bars,  with  sometimes 
a projecting  gable,  to  form  a porch,  thrown  over  the  whole,  as 
in  the  perfect  example,  7 a , Plate  XIV.,  above.  The  other 
examples  in  the  two  lower  lines,  6 and  7,  of  that  Plate  are 
each  characteristic  of  an  enormous  number  of  doors,  variously 
decorated,  from  the  thirteenth  to  the  close  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  The  particulars  of  their  mouldings  are  given  in  the 
final  Appendix. 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


275 


276 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lv.  It  was  useless,  on  the  small  scale  of  this  Plate,  to 
attempt  any  delineation  of  the  richer  sculptures  with  which 
the  arches  are  filled  ; so  that  I have  chosen  for  it  the  simplest 
examples  I could  find  of  the  forms  to  be  illustrated : but,  in 
all  the  more  important  instances,  the  door-head  is  charged 
either  with  delicate  ornaments  and  inlaid  patterns  in  various- 
ly colored  brick,  or  with  sculptures,  consisting  always  of  the 
shield  or  crest  of  the  family,  protected  by  an  angel.  Of  these 
more  perfect  doorways  I have  given  three  examples  carefully, 
in  my  folio  work  ; but  I must  repeat  here  one  part  of  the  ac- 
count of  their  subjects  given  in  its  text,  for  the  convenience  of 
those  to  whom  the  larger  work  may  not  be  accessible. 

§ lvi.  “ In  the  earlier  ages,  all  agree  thus  far,  that  the  name 
of  the  family  is  told,  and  together  with  it  there  is  always  an 
intimation  that  they  have  placed  their  defence  and  their  pros- 
perity in  God’s  hands  ; frequently  accompanied  with  some 
general  expression  of  benediction  to  the  person  passing  over 
the  threshold.  This  is  the  general  theory  of  an  old  Venetian 
doorway  ; — the  theory  of  modern  doorways  remains  to  be  ex- 
plained : it  may  be  studied  to  advantage  in  our  rows  of  new- 
built  houses,  or  rather  of  new-built  house,  changeless  for  miles 
together,  from  which,  to  each  inhabitant,  we  allot  his  proper 
quantity  of  windows,  and  a Doric  portico.  The  Venetian 
carried  out  his  theory  very  simply.  In  the  centre  of  the 
archivolt  we  find  almost  invariably,  in  the  older  work,  the 
hand  between  the  sun  and  moon  in  the  attitude  of  blessing, 
expressing  the  general  power  and  presence  of  God,  the  source 
of  light.  On  the  tympanum  is  the  shield  of  the  family.  Vene- 
tian heraldry  requires  no  beasts  for  supporters,  but  usually 
prefers  angels,  neither  the  supporters  nor  crests  forming  any 
necessary  part  of  Venetian  bearings.  Sometimes,  however, 
human  figures,  or  grotesques,  are  substituted  ; but,  in  that 
case,  an  angel  is  almost  always  introduced  above  the  shield, 
bearing  a globe  in  his  left  hand,  and  therefore  clearly  intended 
for  the  ‘ Angel  of  the  Lord,’  or,  as  it  is  expressed  elsewhere, 
the  ‘ Angel  of  His  Presence.’  Where  elaborate  sculpture  of 
this  kind  is  inadmissible,  the  shield  is  merely  represented  as 
suspended  by  a leather  thong  ; and  a cross  is  introduced  above 


GOTHIC  PALACES. 


m 


the  archivolt.  The  Renaissance  architects  perceived  the  irra- 
tionality of  all  this,  cut  away  both  crosses  and  angels,  and 
substituted  heads  of  satyrs,  which  were  the  proper  presiding 
deities  of  Venice  in  the  Renaissance  periods,  and  which  in  our 
own  domestic  institutions,  we  have  ever  since,  with  much  piety 
and  sagacity,  retained.” 

§ lvii.  The  habit  of  employing  some  religious  symbol,  or 
writing  some  religious  legend,  over  the  door  of  the  house, 
does  not  entirely  disappear  until  far  into  the  period  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  words  “ Peace  be  to  this  house  ” occur  on 
one  side  of  a Veronese  gateway,  with  the  appropriate  and 
veracious  inscription  S.P.Q.R.,  on  a Roman  standard,  on  the 
other  ; and  “ Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord,”  is  written  on  one  of  the  doorways  of  a building  added 
at  the  flank  of  the  Casa  Barbarigo,  in  the  sixteenth  or  seven- 
teenth century.  It  seems  to  be  only  modern  Protestantism 
which  is  entirely  ashamed  of  all  symbols  and  words  that  ap- 
pear in  anywise  like  a confession  of  faith. 

§ lviii.  This  peculiar  feeling  is  well  worthy  of  attentive 
analysis.  It  indeed,  in  most  cases,  hardly  deserves  the  name 
of  a feeling  ; for  the  meaningless  doorway  is  merely  an  ig- 
norant copy  of  heathen  models : but  yet,  if  it  were  at  this 
moment  proposed  to  any  of  us,  by  our  architects,  to  remove 
the  grinning  head  of  a satyr,  or  other  classical  or  Palladian 
ornament,  from  the  keystone  of  the  door,  and  to  substitute 
for  it  a cross,  and  an  inscription  testifying  our  faith,  I believe 
that  most  persons  would  shrink  from  the  proposal  with  an 
obscure  and  yet  overwhelming  sense  that  things  would  be 
sometimes  done,  and  thought,  within  the  house  which  would 
make  the  inscription  on  its  gate  a base  hypocrisy.  And  if  so, 
let  us  look  to  it,  whether  that  strong  reluctance  to  utter  a 
definite  religious  profession,  which  so  many  of  us  feel,  and 
which,  not  very  carefully  examining  into  its  dim  nature,  we 
conclude  to  be  modesty,  or  fear  of  hypocrisy,  or  other  such 
form  of  amiableness,  be  not,  in  very  deed,  neither  less  nor 
more  than  Infidelity  ; whether  Peter’s  “ I know  not  the  man  ” 
be  not  the  sum  and  substance  of  all  these  misgivings  and  hesi- 
tations ; and  whether  the  shamefacedness  which  we  attribute 


278 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


to  sincerity  and  reverence,  be  not  such  shamefacedness  as  may 
at  last  put  us  among  those  of  whom  the  Son  of  Man  shall  be 
ashamed. 

§ lix.  Such  are  the  principal  circumstances  to  be  noted  in 
the  external  form  and  details  of  the  Gothic  palaces ; of  their 
interior  arrangements  there  is  little  left  unaltered.  The  gate- 
ways which  we  have  been  examining  almost  universally  lead, 
in  the  earlier  palaces,  into  a long  interior  court,  round  which 
the  mass  of  the  palace  is  built ; and  in  which  its  first  story  is 
reached  by  a superb  external  staircase,  sustained  on  four  or 
five  pointed  arches  gradually  increasing  as  they  ascend,  both 
in  height  and  span, — this  change  in  their  size  being,  so  far  as 
I remember,  peculiar  to  Venice,  and  visibly  a consequence  of 
the  habitual  admission  of  arches  of  different  sizes  in  the  By- 
zantine fa9ades.  These  staircases  are  protected  by  exquisitely 
carved  parapets,  like  those  of  the  outer  balconies,  with  lions 
or  grotesque  heads  set  on  the  angles,  and  with  true  projecting 
balconies  on  their  landing-places.  In  the  centre  of  the  court 
there  is  always  a marble  well ; and  these  wells  furnish  some 
of  the  most  superb  examples  of  Venetian  sculpture.  I am 
aware  only  of  one  remaining  from  the  Byzantine  period  ; it  is 
octagonal,  and  treated  like  the  richest  of  our  Norman  fonts  : 
but  the  Gothic  wells  of  every  date,  from  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury downwards,  are  innumerable,  and  full  of  beauty,  though 
their  form  is  little  varied  ; they  being,  in  almost  every  case, 
treated  like  colossal  capitals  of  pillars,  with  foliage  at  the 
angles,  and  the  shield  of  the  family  upon  their  sides. 

§ lx.  The  interior  apartments  always  consist  of  one  noble 
hall  on  the  first  story,  often  on  the  second  also,  extending 
across  the  entire  depth  of  the  house,  and  lighted  in  front  by 
the  principal  groups  of  its  windows,  while  smaller  apartments 
open  from  it  on  either  side.  The  ceilings,  where  they  remain 
untouched,  are  of  bold  horizontal  beams,  richly  carved  and 
gilded  ; but  few  of  these  are  left  from  the  true  Gothic  times, 
the  Venetian  interiors  having,  in  almost  every  case,  been  re- 
modelled by  the  Renaissance  architects.  This  change,  how- 
ever, for  once,  we  cannot  regret,  as  the  walls  and  ceilings, 
when  so  altered,  were  covered  with  the  noblest  works  of 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE \ 


279 


Veronese,  Titian,  and  Tintoret ; nor  the  interior  walls  only, 
but,  as  before  noticed,  often  the  exteriors  also.  Of  the  color 
decorations  of  the  Gothic  exteriors  I have,  therefore,  at  pres- 
ent taken  no  notice,  as  it  will  be  more  convenient  to  embrace 
this  subject  in  one  general  view  of  the  systems  of  coloring 
of  the  Venetian  palaces,  when  we  arrive  at  the  period  of  its 
richest  development.*  The  details,  also,  of  most  interest,  re- 
specting the  forms  and  transitional  decoration  of  their  capi- 
tals, will  be  given  in  the  final  Appendix  to  the  next  volume, 
where  we  shall  be  able  to  include  in  our  inquiry  the  whole 
extent  of  the  Gothic  period  ; and  it  remains  for  us,  therefore, 
at  present,  only  to  review  the  history,  fix  the  date,  and  note 
the  most  important  particulars  in  the  structure  of  the  build- 
ing which  at  once  consummates  and  embodies  the  entire  sys- 
tem of  the  Gothic  architecture  of  Venice, — the  Ducal  Palace. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 

§ i.  It  was  stated  in  the  commencement  of  the  preceding 
chapter  that  the  Gothic  art  of  Venice  was  separated  by  the 
building  of  the  Ducal  Palace  into  two  distinct  periods  ; and 
that  in  all  the  domestic  edifices  which  were  raised  for  half  a 
century  after  its  completion,  their  characteristic  and  chiefly 
effective  portions  were  more  or  less  directly  copied  from  it. 
The  fact  is,  that  the  Ducal  Palace  was  the  great  work  of 
Venice  at  this  period,  itself  the  principal  effort  of  her  imag- 
ination, employing  her  best  architects  in  its  masonry,  and  her 
best  painters  in  its  decoration,  for  a long  series  of  years  ; 
and  we  must  receive  it  as  a remarkable  testimony  to  the  in- 
fluence which  it  possessed  over  the  minds  of  those  who  saw  it 
in  its  progress,  that,  while  in  the  other  cities  of  Italy  every 
palace  and  church  was  rising  in  some  original  and  daily  more 

* Vol.  III.  Chap.  I.  I have  had  considerable  difficulty  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  these  volumes,  so  as  to  get  the  points  bearing  upon  each  other 
grouped  in  consecutive  and  intelligible  order. 


280 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


daring  form,  the  majesty  of  this  single  building  was  able  to 
give  pause  to  the  Gothic  imagination  in  its  full  career  ; stayed 
the  restlessness  of  innovation  in  an  instant,  and  forbade  the 
powers  which  had  created  it  thenceforth  to  exert  themselves 
in  new  directions,  or  endeavor  to  summon  an  image  more 
attractive. 

§ n.  The  reader  will  hardly  believe  that  while  the  architect- 
ural invention  of  the  Venetians  was  thus  lost,  Narcissus-like, 
in  self-contemplation,  the  various  accounts  of  the  progress  of 
the  building  thus  admired  and  beloved  are  so  confused  as 
frequently  to  leave  it  doubtful  to  what  portion  of  the  palace 
they  refer  ; and  that  there  is  actually,  at  the  time  being,  a 
dispute  between  the  best  Venetian  antiquaries,  whether  the 
main  fagade  of  the  palace  be  of  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth 
century.  The  determination  of  this  question  is  of  course 
necessary  before  we  proceed  to  draw  any  conclusions  from 
the  style  of  the  work  ; and  it  cannot  be  determined  without  a 
careful  review  of  the  entire  history  of  the  palace,  and  of  all 
the  documents  relating  to  it.  I trust  that  this  review  may 
not  be  found  tedious, — assuredly  it  will  not  be  fruitless, — 
bringing  many  facts  before  us,  singularly  illustrative  of  the 
Venetian  character. 

§ in.  Before,  however,  the  reader  can  enter  upon  any  in- 
quiry into  the  history  of  this  building,  it  is  necessary  that  he 
should  be  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  arrangement  and  names 
of  its  principal  parts,  as  it  at  present  stands  ; otherwise  he  can- 
not comprehend  so  much  as  a single  sentence  of  any  of  the 
documents  referring  to  it.  I must  do  what  I can,  by  the  help 
of  a rough  plan  and  bird’s-eye  view,  to  give  him  the  necessary 
topographical  knowledge  : 

Fig.  XXXVI.  opposite  is  a rude  ground  plan  of  the  build- 
ings round  St.  Mark’s  Place  ; and  the  following  references  will 
clearly  explain  their  relative  positions : 

A.  St.  Mark’s  Place. 

B.  Piazzetta. 

P.  V.  Procuratie  Vecchie. 

P.  N.  (opposite)  Procuratie  Nuove. 

P.  L.  Libreria  Vecchia. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


281 


I.  Piazzetta  de’  Leoni. 

T.  Tower  of  St.  Mark. 

F F.  Great  Facade  of  St.  Mark’s  Church. 

M.  St.  Mark’s.  (It  is  so  united  with  the  Ducal  Palace,  that  the  separa- 
tion cannot  he  indicated  in  the  plan,  unless  all  the  walls  had 
been  marked,  which  would  have  confused  the  whole.) 

D D D.  Ducal  Palace.  g s.  Giant’s  stair. 

C.  Court  of  Ducal  Palace.  J.  Judgment  angle. 

c.  Porta  della  Carta.  a.  Fig-tree  angle. 

p p.  Ponte  della  Paglia  (Bridge  of  Straw). 

S.  Ponte  de’  Sospiri  (Bridge  of  Sighs). 

R R.  Riva  de’  Schiavoni. 

The  reader  will  observe  that  the  Ducal  Palace  is  arranged 
somewhat  in  the  form  of  a hollow  square,  of  which  one  side 
faces  the  Piazzetta,  B,  and  another  the  quay  called  the  Riva 
de’  Schiavoni,  R R ; the  third  is  on  the  dark  canal  called  the 
“ Rio  del  Palazzo,”  and  the  fourth  joins  the  Church  of  St.  Mark. 

Of  this  fourth  side,  therefore,  nothing  can  be  seen.  Of  the 
other  three  sides  we  shall  have  to  speak  constantly  ; and  they 
will  be  respectively  called,  that  towards  the  Piazzetta,  the 
“ Piazzetta  Fayade  ; ” that  towards  the  Riva  de’  Schiavoni,  the 
“ Sea  Fayade  ; ” and  that  towards  the  Rio  del  Palazzo,  the 
“ Rio  Fayade.”  This  Rio,  or  canal,  is  usually  looked  upon  by 
the  traveller  with  great  respect,  or  even  horror,  because  it 
passes  under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  It  is,  however,  one  of  the 
principal  thoroughfares  of  the  city  ; and  the  bridge  and  its 
canal  together  occupy,  in  the  mind  of  a Venetian,  very  much 
the  position  of  Fleet  Street  and  Temple  Bar  in  that  of  a Lon- 
doner,— at  least,  at  the  time  when  Temple  Bar  was  occasionally 
decorated  with  human  heads.  The  two  buildings  closely  re- 
semble each  other  in  form. 

§ iv.  We  must  now  proceed  to  obtain  some  rough  idea  of 
the  appearance  and  distribution  of  the  palace  itself ; but  its 
arrangement  will  be  better  understood  by  supposing  ourselves 
raised  some  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  point  in  the 
lagoon  in  front  of  it,  so  as  to  get  a general  view  of  the  Sea 
Fayade  and  Rio  Fayade  (the  latter  in  very  steep  perspective), 
and  to  look  down  into  its  interior  court.  Fig.  XXXVII.  roughly 
represents  such  a view,  omitting  all  details  on  the  roofs,  in  ordef 


282 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


to  avoid  confusion.  In  this  drawing  we  have  merely  to  notice 
that,  of  the  two  bridges  seen  on  the  right,  the  uppermost, 
above  the  black  canal,  is  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; the  lower  one 
is  the  Ponte  della  Paglia,  the  regular  thoroughfare  from  quay 
to  quay,  and,  I believe,  called  the  Bridge  of  Straw,  because 
the  boats  which  brought  straw  from  the  mainland  used  to  sell 
it  at  this  place.  The  corner  of  the  palace,  rising  above  this 
bridge,  and  formed  by  the  meeting  of  the  Sea  Fa9ade  and  Bio 
Facade,  will  always  be  called  the  Vine  angle,  because  it  is  dec- 
orated by  a sculpture  of  the  drunkenness  of  Noah.  The  angle 
opposite  will  be  called  the  Fig-tree  angle,  because  it  is  dec- 
orated by  a sculpture  of  the  Fall  of  Man.  The  long  and  nar- 
row range  of  building,  of  which  the  roof  is  seen  in  perspective 
behind  this  angle,  is  the  part  of  the  palace  fronting  the  Piaz- 
zetta  ; and  the  angle  under  the  pinnacle  most  to  the  left  of 
the  two  which  terminate  it  will  be  called,  for  a reason  pres- 
ently to  be  stated,  the  Judgment  angle.  Within  the  square 
formed  by  the  building  is  seen  its  interior  court  (with  one  of 
its  wells),  terminated  by  small  and  fantastic  buildings  of  the 
Benaissance  period,  which  face  the  Giant’s  Stair,  of  which  the 
extremity  is  seen  sloping  down  on  the  left. 

§ v.  The  great  fa9ade  which  fronts  the  spectator  looks  south- 
ward. Hence  the  two  traceried  windows  lower  than  the  rest, 
and  to  the  right  of  the  spectator,  may  be  conveniently  distin- 
guished as  the  “Eastern  Windows.”  There  are  two  others 
like  them,  filled  with  tracery,  and  at  the  same  level,  which 
look  upon  the  narrow  canal  between  the  Ponte  della  Paglia 
and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs : these  we  may  conveniently  call  the 
“Canal  Windows.”  The  reader  will  observe  a vertical  line  in 
this  dark  side  of  the  palace,  separating  its  nearer  and  plainer 
wall  from  a long  four-storied  range  of  rich  architecture.  This 
more  distant  range  is  entirely  Benaissance : its  extremity  is 
not  indicated,  because  I have  no  accurate  sketch  of  the  small 
buildings  and  bridges  beyond  it,  and  we  shall  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  this  part  of  the  palace  in  our  present  in- 
quiry. The  nearer  and  undecorated  wall  is  part  of  the  older 
palace,  though  much  defaced  by  modern  opening  of  common 
windows,  refittings  of  the  brickwork,  &c. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


283 


§ vi.  It  will  be  observed  that  the  fa9ade  is  composed  of  a 
smooth  mass  of  wall,  sustained  on  two  tiers  of  pillars,  one 
above  the  other.  The  manner  in  which  these  support  the 
whole  fabric  will  be  understood  at  once  by  the  rough  section, 
fig.  XXXVIII.,  which  is  supposed  to  be  taken 
right  through  the  palace  to  the  interior  court, 
from  near  the  middle  of  the  Sea  Fa9ade. 

Here  a and  d are  the  rows  of  shafts,  both  in 
the  inner  court  and  on  the  Fa9ade,  which 
carry  the  main  walls ; b,  c are  solid  walls 
variously  strengthened  with  pilasters.  A,  B, 

C are  the  three  stories  of  the  interior  of  the  b 

! Fig.  XXXVIII. 

palace. 

The  reader  sees  that  it  is  impossible  for  any  plan  to  be 
more  simple,  and  that  if  the  inner  floors  and  walls  of  the  stories 
A,  B were  removed,  there  would  be  left  merely  the  form  of  a 
basilica, — two  high  walls,  carried  on  ranges  of  shafts,  and 
roofed  by  a low  gable. 

The  stories  A,  B are  entirely  modernized,  and  divided  into 
confused  ranges  of  small  apartments,  among  which  what  ves- 
tiges remain  of  ancient  masonry  are  entirely  undecipherable, 
except  by  investigations  such  as  I have  had  neither  the  time 
nor,  as  in  most  cases  they  would  involve  the  removal  of  mod- 
ern plastering,  the  opportunity,  to  make.  With  the  subdivi- 
sions of  this  story,  therefore,  I shall  not  trouble  the  reader ; 
but  those  of  the  great  upper  story,  C,  are  highly  important. 

§ vn.  In  the  bird’s-eye  view  above,  fig.  XXXVII.,  it  will  be 
noticed  that  the  two  windows  on  the  right  are  lower  than  the 
other  four  of  the  fa9ade.  In  this  arrangement  there  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  instances  I know  of  the  daring  sacrifice 
of  symmetry  to  convenience,  which  was  noticed  in  Chap.  VH. 
as  one  of  the  chief  noblenesses  of  the  Gothic  schools. 

The  part  of  the  palace  in  which  the  two  lower  windows 
occur,  we  shall  find,  was  first  built,  and  arranged  in  four  stories 
in  order  to  obtain  the  necessary  number  of  apartments.  Owing 
to  circumstances,  of  which  we  shall  presently  give  an  account* 
it  became  necessary,  in  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, to  provide  another  large  and  magnificent  chamber  for 


284 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  meeting  of  the  senate.  That  chamber  was  added  at  the 
side  of  the  older  building  ; but,  as  only  one  room  was  wanted, 
there  was  no  need  to  divide  the  added  portion  into  two  sto- 
ries. The  entire  height  was  given  to  the  single  chamber, 
being  indeed  not  too  great  for  just  harmony  with  its  enor- 
mous length  and  breadth.  And  then  came  the  question  how 
to  place  the  windows,  whether  on  a line  with  the  Wo  others, 
or  above  them. 

The  ceiling  of  the  new  room  was  to  be  adorned  by  the 
paintings  of  the  best  masters  in  Venice,  and  it  became  of 
great  importance  to  raise  the  light  near  that  gorgeous  roof,  as 
well  as  to  keep  the  tone  of  illumination  in  the  Council  Cham- 
ber serene ; and  therefore  to  introduce  light  rather  in  simple 
masses  than  in  many  broken  streams.  A modern  architect, 
terrified  at  the  idea  of  violating  external  symmetry,  would 
have  sacrificed  both  the  pictures  and  the  peace  of  the  council. 
He  would  have  placed  the  larger  windows  at  the  same  level 
with  the  other  two,  and  have  introduced  above  them  smaller 
windows,  like  those  of  the  upper  story  in  the  older  building, 
as  if  that  upper  story  had  been  continued  along  the  facade. 
But  the  old  Venetian  thought  of  the  honor  of  the  paintings, 
and  the  comfort  of  the  senate,  before  his  own  reputation. 
He  unhesitatingly  raised  the  large  windows  to  their  proper 
position  with  reference  to  the  interior  of  the  chamber,  and 
suffered  the  external  appearance  to  take  care  of  itself.  And 
I believe  the  whole  pile  rather  gains  than  loses  in  effect  by 
the  variation  thus  obtained  in  the  spaces  of  wall  above  and 
below  the  windows. 

§ vni.  On  the  party  wall,  between  the  second  and  third 
windows,  which  faces  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  Great 
Council  Chamber,  is  painted  the  Paradise  of  Tintoret ; and 
this  wall  will  therefore  be  hereafter  called  the  “ Wall  of  the 
Paradise.” 

In  nearly  the  centre  of  the  Sea  Facade,  and  between  the 
first  and  second  windows  of  the  Great  Council  Chamber,  is  a 
large  window  to  the  ground,  opening  on  a balcony,  which  is 
one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  palace,  and  will  be  called 
in  future  the  “Sea  Balcony.” 


TEE  BIT  GAL  PALACE \ 


285 


Tlie  facade  which  looks  on  the  Piazetta  is  very  nearly  like 
this  to  the  Sea,  but  the  greater  part  of  it  was  built  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  when  people  had  become  studious  of  their 
symmetries.  Its  side  windows  are  all  on  the  same  level. 
Two  light  the  west  end  of  the  Great  Council  Chamber,  one 
lights  a small  room  anciently  called  the  Quarantia  Civil 
Nuova  ; the  other  three,  and  the  central  one,  with  a balcony 
like  that  to  the  Sea,  light  another  large  chamber,  called  Sala 
del  Scrutinio,  or  “Hall  of  Enquiry,”  which  extends  to  the 
extremity  of  the  palace  above  the  Porta  della  Carta. 

§ ix.  The  reader  is  now  well  enough  acquainted  with  the 
topography  of  the  existing  building,  to  be  able  to  follow  the 
accounts  of  its  history. 

We  have  seen  above,  that  there  were  three  principal  styles 
of  Venetian  architecture  ; Byzantine,  Gothic,  and  Renaissance. 

The  Ducal  Palace,  which  was  the  great  work  of  Venice, 
was  built  successively  in  the  three  styles.  There  was  a By- 
zantine Ducal  Palace,  a Gothic  Ducal  Palace,  and  a Renais- 
sance Ducal  Palace.  The  second  superseded  the  first  totally  ; 
a few  stones  of  it  (if  indeed  so  much)  are  all  that  is  left.  But 
the  third  superseded  the  second  in  part  only,  and  the  exist- 
ing building  is  formed  by  the  union  of  the  two. 

We  shall  review  the  history  of  each  in  succession.* 

1st.  The  Byzantine  Palace. 

In  the  year  of  the  death  of  Charlemagne,  813,  f the  Vene- 

* The  reader  will  find  it  convenient  to  note  the  following  editions  of 
the  printed  books  which  have  been  principally  consulted  in  the  follow- 
ing inquiry.  The  numbers  of  the  manuscripts  referred  to  in  the  Mar- 
cian  Library  are  given  with  the  quotations. 

Sansovino.  Venetia  Descritta.  4to,  Venice,  1663. 

Sansovino.  Lettera  intorno  al  Palazzo  Ducale.  8vo,  Venice,  1829. 

Temanza.  Antica  Pianta  di  Venezia,  with  text.  Venice,  1780. 

Cadorin.  Pareri  di  XV.  Architetti.  8vo,  Venice,  1838. 

Filiasi.  Memorie  storiche.  8vo,  Padua.  1811. 

Bettio.  Lettera  discorsiva  del  Palazzo  Ducale.  8vo,  Venice,  1837. 

Selvatico.  Architettura  di  Venezia.  8vo,  Venice,  1847. 

t The  year  commonly  given  is  810,  as  in  the  Savina  Chronicle  (Cod. 
Marcianus),  p.  13.  u Del  810  fece  principiar  el  pallazzo  Ducal  nel  luogo 


286 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


tians  determined  to  make  the  island  of  Rialto  the  seat  of  the 
government  and  capital  of  their  state.  Their  Doge,  Angelo 
or  Agnello  Participazio,  instantly  took  vigorous  means  for  the 
enlargement  of  the  small  group  of  buildings  which  were  to 
be  the  nucleus  of  the  future  Venice.  He  appointed  persons 
to  superintend  the  raising  of  the  banks  of  sand,  so  as  to  form 
more  secure  foundations,  and  to  build  wooden  bridges  over 
the  canals.  For  the  offices  of  religion,  he  built  the  Church 
of  St.  Mark  ; and  on,  or  near,  the  spot  where  the  Ducal  Palace 
now  stands,  he  built  a palace  for  the  administration  of  the 
government.* 

The  history  of  the  Ducal  Palace  therefore  begins  with  the 
birth  of  Venice,  and  to  what  remains  of  it,  at  this  day,  is  en- 
trusted the  last  representation  of  her  power. 

§ x.  Of  the  exact  position  and  form  of  this  palace  of  Par- 
ticipazio little  is  ascertained.  Sansovino  says  that  it  was 
“ built  near  the  Ponte  della  Paglia,  and  answeringly  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  ” f towards  San  Giorgio  ; that  is  to  say,  in  the 
place  now  occupied  by  the  Sea  Fa9ade  ; but  this  was  merely 


ditto  Bruolo  in  confin  di  S.  Moise,  et  fece  riedificar  la  isola  di  Eraclia.” 
The  Sagornin  Chronicle  gives  804;  and  Filiasi,  vol.  vi.  chap.  1,  corrects 
this  date  to  818. 

* “ Amplio  la  citta,  fornilla  di  casamenti,  e per  il  culto  cV  IddioeV  am - 
ministrazione  della  giustizia  eresse  la  cappella  di  S.  Marco,  e il  palazzo  di 
sua  residenza.” — Pareri,  p.  120.  Observe,  that  piety  towards  God,  and 
justice  towards  man,  have  been  at  least  the  nominal  purposes  of  every 
act  and  institution  of  ancient  Venice.  Compare  also  Temanza,  p.  24. 
“ Quello  che  abbiamo  di  certo  si  e die  il  suddetto  Agnello  lo  incomincio 
da  fondamenti,  e cost  pure  la  cappella  ducale  di  S.  Marco.” 

f What  I call  the  Sea,  was  called  “ the  Grand  Canal”  by  the  Vene- 
tians, as  well  as  the  great  water  street  of  the  city  ; but  I prefer  calling 
it  “ the  Sea,”  in  order  to  distinguish  between  that  street  and  the  broad 
water  in  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  which,  interrupted  only  by  the  isl- 
and of  San  Giorgio,  stretches  for  many  miles  to  the  south,  and  for  more 
than  two  to  the  boundary  of  the  Lido.  It  was  the  deeper  channel,  just 
in  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  continuing  the  line  of  the  great  water 
street  itself  which  the  Venetians  spoke  of  as  a the  Grand  Canal.”  The 
words  of  Sansovino  are : “ Fu  cominciato  dove  si  vede,  vicino  al  pont« 
della  paglia,  et  rispondente  sul  canal  grande.”  Filiasi  says  simply: 
“ The  palace  was  built  where  it  now  is.”  “ Il  palazio  fu  fatto  dove  or# 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


287 


the  popular  report  of  his  clay.  We  know,  however,  positively, 
that  it  was  somewhere  upon  the  site  of  the  existing  palace  ; 
and  that  it  had  an  important  front  towards  the  Piazzetta,  with 
which,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  the  present  palace  at  one 
pei  iod  was  incorporated.  W e know,  also,  that  it  was  a pile  of 
some  magnificence,  from  the  account  given  by  Sagornino  of 
the  visit  paid  by  the  Emperor  Otho  the  Great,  to  the  Doge 
Pietro  Orseolo  II.  The  chronicler  says  that  the  Emperor 
“beheld  carefully  all  the  beauty  of  the  palace;”*  and  the 
Venetian  historians  express  pride  in  the  building’s  being 
worthy  of  an  emperor’s  examination.  This  was  after  the 
palace  had  been  much  injured  by  fire  in  the  revolt  against 
Candiano  IV., f and  just  repaired,  and  richly  adorned  by  Or- 
seolo himself,  who  is  spoken  of  by  Sagornino  as  having  also 
“ adorned  the  chapel  of  the  Ducal  Palace  ” (St.  Mark’s)  with 
ornaments  of  marble  and  gold.  J There  can  be  no  doubt 
whatever  that  the  palace  at  this  period  resembled  and  im- 
pressed the  other  Byzantine  edifices  of  the  city,  such  as  the 


pure  esiste.”— Vol.  iii.  chap.  27.  The  Savina  Chronicle,  already  quoted, 
says : “In  the  place  called  the  Bruolo  (or  Broglio),  that  is  to  say,  on  the 
Piazzetta.  ” 


* “ 0mni  decoritate  illius  perlustrata. ’’-Sagornino,  quoted  by  Cadorin 
and  Temanza. 

t There  is  an  interesting  account  of  this  revolt  in  Monaci,  p.  68. 
Some  historians  speak  of  the  palace  as  having  been  destroyed  entirely; 
but,  that  it  did  not  even  need  important  restorations,  appears  from  Sag- 
ornmo’s  expression,  quoted  by  Cadorin  and  Temanza.  Speaking  of  the 
Doge  Participazio,  he  says  : “ Qui  Palatii  liucusque  manentis  fuerit  fab- 
ricator. The  reparations  of  the  palace  are  usually  attributed  to  the 
successor  of  Candiano,  Pietro  Orseolo  I.  ; but  the  legend,  under  the 
picture  of  that  Doge  in  the  Council  Chamber,  speaks  only  of  his  rebuild- 
ing St.  Mark’s,  and  “performing  many  miracles.”  His  whole  mind 
seems  to  have  been  occupied  with  ecclesiastical  affairs  ; and  his  piety 
was  finally  manifested  in  a way  somewhat  startling  to  the  state,  bv  his 
absconding  with  a French  priest  to  St.  Michael’s,  in  Gascony, " and 
there  becoming  a monk.  What  repairs,  therefore,  were  necessary  to  the 
namedPalaCe’  ^ t0  b®  nndertaken  b>s  son,  Orseolo  II.  , above 

X “ Quam  non  modo  marmoreo,  verum  aureo  compsit  oruamento.”— 
lemanza,  p.  25* 


288 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Fondaco  de  Turchi,  &c.,  whose  remains  have  been  already  de< 
scribed ; and  that,  like  them,  it  was  covered  with  sculpture, 
and  richly  adorned  with  gold  and  color. 

§ xi.  In  the  year  1106,  it  was  for  the  second  time  injured 
by  fire,* * * §  but  repaired  before  1116,  when  it  received  another 
emperor,  Henry  Y.  (of  Germany),  and  was  again  honored  by 
imperial  praise,  f Between  1173  and  the  close  of  the  century, 
it  seems  to  have  been  again  repaired  and  much  enlarged  by 
the  Doge  Sebastian  Ziani.  Sansovino  says  that  this  Doge 
not  only  repaired  it,  but  “ enlarged  it  in  every  direction  ; ” J 
and,  after  this  enlargement,  the  palace  seems  to  have  re- 
mained untouched  for  a hundred  years,  until,  in  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  works  of  the 
Gothic  Palace  were  begun.  As,  therefore,  the  old  Byzantine 
building  was,  at  the  time  when  those  works  first  interfered 
with  it,  in  the  form  given  to  it  by  Ziani,  I shall  hereafter  al- 
ways speak  of  it  as  the  Ziani  Palace  ; and  this  the  rather, 
because  the  only  chronicler  whose  words  are  perfectly  clear 
respecting  the  existence  of  part  of  this  palace  so  late  as  the 
year  1422,  speaks  of  it  as  built  by  Ziani.  The  old  “ palace, 
of  which  half  remains  to  this  day,  was  built,  as  we  now  see 
it,  by  Sebastian  Ziani.  *’  § 

So  far,  then,  of  the  Byzantine  Palace. 

§ xn.  2nd.  The  Gothic  Palace.  The  reader,  doubtless, 
recollects  that  the  important  change  in  the  Venetian  govern- 
ment which  gave  stability  to  the  aristocratic  power  took  place 

* “ I/anno  1106,  uscito  fuoco  d’una  casa  privata,  arse  parte  del  pa- 
lazzo.” — Sansovino.  Of  the  beneficial  effect  of  these  fires,  vide  Cadorin, 
p.  121,  123. 

f “ Urbis  situm,  sedificiorum  decorem,  et  regiminis  sequitatem  multi' 
pliciter  commendavit.  ” — Cronaca  Dandolo , quoted  by  Cadorin. 

\ “Non  solamente  rinovo  il  palazzo,  ma  lo  aggrandi  per  ogni  verso.” 
-Sansovino.  Zanotto  quotes  the  Altinat  Chronicle  for  account  of  these 
repairs. 

§ “El  palazzo  die  anco  di  mezzo  se  vede  vecchio,  per  M.  Sebastian 
Ziani  fu  fatto  compir,  come  el  se  vede.”—  Chronicle  of  Pietro  Eolfino} 
Cod.  Veil.  p.  47.  This  Chronicle  is  spoken  of  by  Sansovino  as  “ molto 
particolare  e distinta.  ” — Sansovino , Venezia  descritta , p.  593. — It  ter- 
minates in  the  year  1422. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


289 


about  the  year  1297,*  under  the  Doge  Pietro  Gradenigo,  a 
man  thus  characterized  by  Sansovino  : — “ A prompt  and  pru- 
dent man,  of  unconquerable  determination  and  great  elo- 
quence, who  laid,  so  to  speak,  the  foundations  of  the  eternity 
of  this  republic,  by  the  admirable  regulations  which  he  intro- 
duced into  the  government.” 

We  may  now,  with  some  reason,  doubt  of  their  admirable- 
ness ; but  their  importance,  and  the  vigorous  will  and  intel- 
lect of  the  Doge,  are  not  to  be  disputed.  Venice  was  in  the 
zenith  of  her  strength,  and  the  heroism  of  her  citizens  was 
displaying  itself  in  every  quarter  of  the  world,  f The  acqui- 
escence in  the  secure  establishment  of  the  aristocratic  power 
was  an  expression,  by  the  people,  of  respect  for  the  families 
which  had  been  chiefly  instrumental  in  raising  the  common- 
wealth to  such  a height  of  prosperity. 

The  Serrar  del  Consiglio  fixed  the  numbers  of  the  Senate 
within  certain  limits,  and  it  conferred  upon  them  a dignity 
greater  than  they  had  ever  before  possessed.  It  was  natural 
that  the  alteration  in  the  character  of  the  assembly  should  be 
attended  by  some  change  in  the  size,  arrangement,  or  decora- 
tion of  the  chamber  in  which  they  sat. 

We  accordingly  find  it  recorded  by  Sansovino,  that  “ in 
1301  another  saloon  was  begun  on  the  Rio  del  Palazzo,  under 
the  Doge  Gradenigo , and  finished  in  1309,  in  which  year  the 
Grand  Council  first  sat  in  it”  J In  the  first  year,  therefore, 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  Gothic  Ducal  Palace  of  Venice 
was  begun ; and  as  the  Byzantine  Palace  wras,  in  its  founda- 
tion, coeval  with  that  of  the  state,  so  the  Gothic  Palace  was, 
in  its  foundation,  coeval  with  that  of  the  aristocratic  power. 
Considered  as  the  principal  representation  of  the  Venetian 
school  of  architecture,  the  Ducal  Palace  is  the  Parthenon  of 
Venice,  and  Gradenigo  its  Pericles. 

§ xiii.  Sansovino,  with  a caution  very  frequent  among  Ve- 
netian historians,  when  alluding  to  events  connected  with  the 
Serrar  del  Consiglio,  does  not  specially  mention  the  cause  for 

* See  Vol.  I.  Appendix  3. 

t Vide  Sansovino’s  enumeration  of  those  who  flourished  in  the  reign 
of  Gradenigo,  p.  564.  \ Sansovino,  324,  1. 

Vol.  II.— 19 


290 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 


the  requirement  of  the  new  chamber  ; but  the  Sivos  Chronicle 
is  a little  more  distinct  in  expression.  “In  1301,  it  was  deter- 
mined to  build  a great  saloon  for  the  assembling  of  the  Great 
Council,  and  the  room  was  built  which  is  now  called  the  Sala 
del  Scrutinio.”  * Now,  that  is  to  say,  at  the  time  when  the 
Sivos  Chronicle  was  written  ; the  room  has  long  ago  been 
destroyed,  and  its  name  given  to  another  chamber  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  palace  : but  I wish  the  reader  to  remember 
the  date  1301,  as  marking  the  commencement  of  a great  archi- 
tectural epoch,  in  which  took  place  the  first  appliance  of  the 
energy  of  the  aristocratic  power,  and  of  the  Gothic  style,  to 
the  works  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  The  operations  then  begun 
were  continued,  with  hardly  an  interruption,  during  the  whole 
period  of  the  prosperity  of  Venice.  We  shall  see  the  new 
buildings  consume,  and  take  the  place  of,  the  Ziani  Palace, 
piece  by  piece : and  when  the  Ziani  Palace  was  destroyed, 
they  fed  upon  themselves ; being  continued  round  the  square, 
until,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  they  reached  the  point  where 
they  had  been  begun  in  the  fourteenth,  and  pursued  the  track 
they  had  then  followed  some  distance  beyond  the  junction  ; 
destroying  or  hiding  their  own  commencement,  as  the  serpent, 
which  is  the  type  of  eternity,  conceals  its  tail  in  its  jaws. 

§ xiv.  We  cannot,  therefore,  see  the  extremity,  wherein  lay 
the  sting  and  force  of  the  whole  creature, — the  chamber,  namely, 
built  by  the  Doge  Gradenigo  ; but  the  reader  must  keep  that 
commencement  and  the  date  of  it  carefully  in  his  mind.  The 
body  of  the  Palace  Serpent  will  soon  become  visible  to  us. 

The  Gradenigo  Chamber  was  somewhere  on  the  Bio  Facade, 

* “ 1801  fu  presa  parte  di  fare  una  sala  grande  per  la  riduzione  dt& 
gran  consiglio,  e fu  fatta  quella  clie  ora  si  cliiama  dello  Scrutinio.” — 
Cronaca  Sivos , quoted  by  Cadorin.  There  is  another  most  interesting 
entry  in  the  Chronicle  of  Magno,  relating  to  this  event ; but  the  passage 
is  so  ill  written,  that  I am  not  sure  if  I have  deciphered  it  correctly: — 
il  Del  1801  fu  preso  de  fabrichar  la  sala  fo  ruina  e fu  fata  (fatta)  quella 
se  adoperava  a far  el  pregadi  e fu  adopera  per  far  el  Gran  Consegio  fin 
1428,  che  fu  anni  122.”  This  last  sentence,  which  is  of  great  impor- 
tance, is  luckily  unmistakable : — “ The  room  was  used  for  the  meetings 
of  the  Great  Council  until  1423,  that  is  to  say,  for  122  years.” — Cod. 
Yen.  tom.  i.  p.  126.  The  chronicle  extends  from  1253  to  1454. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


291 


behind  the  present  position  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs;  i.e.  about 
the  point  marked  on  the  roof  by  the  dotted  lines  in  the  wood- 
cut  ; it  is  not  known  whether  low  or  high,  but  probably  on  a 
first  story.  The  great  fa9ade  of  the  Ziani  Palace  being,  as 
above  mentioned,  on  the  Piazzetta,  this  chamber  was  as  far 
back  and  out  of  the  way  as  possible  ; secrecy  and  security 
being  obviously  the  points  first  considered. 

§ xv.  But  the  newly  constituted  Senate  had  need  of  other 
additions  to  the  ancient  palace  besides  the  Council  Chamber. 
A short,  but  most  significant,  sentence  is  added  to  Sansovino’s 
account  of  the  construction  of  that  room.  “ There  were,  near 
it”  he  says,  “ the  Cancellaria,  and  the  Gheba  or  Gabbia,  after- 
wards called  the  Little  Tower.”  * 

Gabbia  means  a “ cage  ; ” and  there  can  be  no  question 
that  certain  apartments  were  at  this  time  added  at  the  top  of 
the  palace  and  on  the  Kio  Facade,  which  were  to  be  used  as 
prisons.  Whether  any  portion  of  the  old  Torresella  still  re- 
mains is  a doubtful  question  ; but  the  apartments  at  the  top 
of  the  palace,  in  its  fourth  story,  were  still  used  for  prisons 
as  late  as  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century. *j*  I wish 
the  reader  especially  to  notice  that  a separate  tower  or  range 
of  apartments  was  built  for  this  purpose,  in  order  to  clear 
the  government  of  the  accusations  so  constantly  made  against 
them,  by  ignorant  or  partial  historians,  of  wanton  cruelty 
to  prisoners.  The  stories  commonly  told  respecting  the 
“ piombi  ” of  the  Ducal  Palace  are  utterly  false.  Instead  of 
being,  as  usually  reported,  small  furnaces  under  the  leads  of 
the  palace,  they  were  comfortable  rooms,  with  good  flat  roofs 
of  larch,  and  carefully  ventilated.  J The  new  chamber,  then, 

* “Vi  era  appresso  la  Cancellaria,  e la  Gheba  o Gabbia,  chiamata  poi 
Torresella.” — P.  324.  A small  square  tower  is  seen  above  the  Vine  angle 
in  the  view  of  Venice  dated  1500,  and  attributed  to  Albert  Durer.  It  ap- 
pears about  25  feet  square,  and  is  very  probably  the  Torresella  in  question. 

f Vide  Bettio,  Lettera,  p.  23. 

t Bettio,  Lettera,  p.  20.  “Those  who  wrote  without  having  seen 
them  described  them  as  covered  with  lead  ; and  those  who  have  seen 
them  know  that,  between  their  fiat  timber  roofs  and  the  sloping  leaden 
roof  of  the  palace,  the  interval  is  live  metres  where  it  is  least,  and  nine 
where  it  is  greatest.” 


292 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


and  the  prisons,  being  built,  the  Great  Council  first  sat  in 
their  retired  chamber  on  the  Eio  in  the  year  1309. 

§ xvi.  Now,  observe  the  significant  progress  of  events. 
They  had  no  sooner  thus  established  themselves  in  power 
than  they  were  disturbed  by  the  conspiracy  of  the  Tiepolos, 
in  the  year  1310.  In  consequence  of  that  conspiracy  the 
Council  of  Ten  was  created,  still  under  the  Doge  Gradenigo  ; 
who,  having  finished  his  work  and  left  the  aristocracy  of  Ven- 
ice armed  with  this  terrible  power,  died  in  the  year  1312, 
some  say  by  poison.  He  was  succeeded  by  the  Doge  Marino 
Giorgio,  who  reigned  only  one  year  ; and  then  followed  the 
prosperous  government  of  John  Soranzo.  There  is  no  men- 
tion of  any  additions  to  the  Ducal  Palace  during  his  reign, 
but  he  was  succeeded  by  that  Francesco  Dandolo,  the  sculpt- 
ures on  whose  tomb,  still  existing  in  the  cloisters  of  the 
Salute,  may  be  compared  by  any  traveller  with  those  of  the 
Ducal  Palace.  Of  him  it  is  recorded  in  the  Savina  Chronicle : 
“ This  Doge  also  had  the  great  gate  built  which  is  at  the  entry 
of  the  palace,  above  which  is  his  statue  kneeling,  with  the  gon- 
falon in  hand,  before  the  feet  of  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark’s.”  * 

§ xvii.  It  appears,  then,  that  after  the  Senate  had  com- 
pleted their  Council  Chamber  and  the  prisons,  they  required 
a nobler  door  than  that  of  the  old  Ziani  Palace  for  their  Mag- 
nificences to  enter  by.  This  door  is  twice  spoken  of  in  the 
government  accounts  of  expenses,  which  are  fortunately  pre- 
served,! in  the  following  terms  : — 

“ 1335,  June  1.  We,  Andrew  Dandolo  and  Mark  Loredano, 
procurators  of  St.  Mark’s,  have  paid  to  Martin  the  stone- 
cutter and  his  associates  J ....  for  a stone  of 
which  the  lion  is  made  which  is  put  over  the  gate  of  the 
palace.” 

* “ Questo  Dose  anche  fese  far  la  porta  granda  che  se  al  intrar  del 
Pallazzo,  in  su  la  qnal  vi  e la  sua  statua  che  sta  in  zenocchioni  conlo 
confalon  in  man,  davanti  li  pie  de  lo  Lion  S.  Marco.” — Savin  Chronicle , 
Cod.  Ven.  p.  120. 

f These  documents  I have  not  examined  myself,  being  satisfied  of  the 
accuracy  of  Cadorin,  from  whom  I take  the  passages  quoted, 
t “ Libras  tres,  soldos  15  grossorum.” — Cadorin , 189,  1. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


293 


Cc  1344,  November  4.  We  have  paid  thirty-five  golden  ducats 
for  making  gold  leaf,  to  gild  the  lion  which  is  over  the 
door  of  the  palace  stairs.” 

The  position  of  this  door  is  disputed,  and  is  of  no  conse- 
quence to  the  reader,  the  door  itself  having  long  ago  disap- 
peared, and  been  replaced  by  the  Porta  della  Carta. 

§ xviii.  But  before  it  was  finished,  occasion  had  been  dis- 
covered for  farther  improvements.  The  Senate  found  their 
new  Council  Chamber  inconveniently  small,  and,  about  thirty 
years  after  its  completion,  began  to  consider  where  a larger 
and  more  magnificent  one  might  be  built.  The  government 
was  now  thoroughly  established,  and  it  was  probably  felt  that 
there  was  some  meanness  in  the  retired  position,  as  well  as 
insufficiency  in  the  size,  of  the  Council  Chamber  on  the  Bio. 
The  first  definite  account  which  I find  of  their  proceedings, 
unde:?  these  circumstances,  is  in  the  Caroldo  Chronicle : * 

“ 1340.  On  the  28th  of  December,  in  the  preceding  year. 
Master  Marco  Erizzo,  Nicolo  Soranzo,  and  Thomas  Grade- 
nigo,  were  chosen  to  examine  where  a new  saloon  might  be 
built  in  order  to  assemble  therein  the  Greater  Council. 

. . On  the  3rd  of  June,  1341,  the  Great  Council  elected 

two  procurators  of  the  work  of  this  saloon,  with  a salary  of 
eighty  ducats  a year.” 

It  appears  from  the  entry  still  preserved  in  the  Archivio, 
and  quoted  by  Cadorin,  that  it  was  on  the  28th  of  December, 
1340,  that  the  commissioners  appointed  to  decide  on  this  im- 
portant matter  gave  in  their  report  to  the  Grand  Council,  and 
that  the  decree  passed  thereupon  for  the  commencement  of  a 
new  Council  Chamber  on  the  Grand  Canal,  f 

The  room  then  begun  is  the  one  now  in  existence , and  its 
building  involved  the  building  of  all  that  is  best  and  most 
beautiful  in  the  present  Ducal  Palace,  the  rich  arcades  of  the 
* Cod,  Yen.,  No.  cxli.  p.  865. 

t Sansovino  is  more  explicit  than  usual  in  his  reference  to  this  decree  : 
“ For  it  having  appeared  that  the  place  (the  first  Council  Chamber)  was 
not  capacious  enough,  the  saloon  on  the  Grand  Canal  was  ordered.” 
Per  cio  parendo  che  il  luogo  non  fosse  capace,  fu  ordinata  la  Sala  sul 
Canal  Grande.” — P.  324. 


294 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


lower  stories  being  all  prepared  for  sustaining  this  Sala  del 
Gran  Consiglio. 

§ xix.  In  saying  that  it  is  the  same  now  in  existence,  I do 
not  mean  that  it  has  undergone  no  alterations  ; as  we  shall 
see  hereafter,  it  has  been  refitted  again  and  again,  and  some 
portions  of  its  walls  rebuilt ; but  in  the  place  and  form  in 
which  it  first  stood,  it  still  stands  ; and  by  a glance  at  the 
position  which  its  windows  occupy,  as  shown  in  fig.  XXXVII. 
above,  the  reader  will  see  at  once  that  whatever  can  be  known 
respecting  the  design  of  the  Sea  Fa9ade,  must  be  gleaned  out 
of  the  entries  which  refer  to  the  building  of  this  Great  Coun- 
cil Chamber. 

Cadorin  quotes  two  of  great  importance,  to  which  we  shall 
return  in  due  time,  made  during  the  progress  of  the  work  in 
1342  and  1344 ; then  one  of  1349,  resolving  that  the  works  at 
the  Ducal  Palace,  which  had  been  discontinued  during  the 
plague,  should  be  resumed  ; and  finally  one  in  1362,  which 
speaks  of  the  Great  Council  Chamber  as  having  been  neglected 
and  suffered  to  fall  into  “ great  desolation,”  and  resolves  that 
it  shall  be  forthwith  completed.* 

The  interruption  had  not  been  caused  by  the  plague  only, 
but  by  the  conspiracy  of  Faliero,  and  the  violent  death  of  the 
master  builder.f  The  work  was  resumed  in  1362,  and  com- 
pleted within  the  next  three  years,  at  least  so  far  as  that 
Guariento  was  enabled  to  paint  his  Paradise  on  the  walls  ; J 
so  that  the  building  must,  at  any  rate,  have  been  roofed  by 
this  time.  Its  decorations  and  fittings,  however,  were  long  in 
completion  ; the  paintings  on  the  roof  being  only  executed  in 
1400.  § They  represented  the  heavens  covered  with  stars,  || 

* Cadorin,  185,  2.  The  decree  of  1342  is  falsely  given  as  of  1345  by 
the  Sivos  Chronicle,  and  by  Magno ; while  Sanuto  gives  the  decree  to  its 
right  year,  1342,  but  speaks  of  the  Council  Chamber  as  only  begun  in 
1345. 

f Calendario.  See  Appendix  1,  Vol.  III. 

t “II  primo  che  vi  colorisse  fu  Guariento,  il  quale  l’anno  1365  vi  fece 
il  Paradiso  in  testa  della  sala.” — Sansovino. 

§ “ L’  an  poi  1400  vifece  il  cielo  compartita  a quadretti  d’  oro,  ripienl 
di  stelle,  ch’  era  la  insegna  del  Doge  Steno.” — Sansovino , lib.  vm. 

| “In  questi  tempi  si  messe  in  oro  il  cielo  della  sala  del  Gran  Consig« 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


295 


this  being,  says  Sansovino,  the  bearings  of  the  Doge  Steno. 
Almost  all  ceilings  and  vaults  were  at  this  time  in  Venice  cow 
ered  with  stars,  without  any  reference  to  armorial  bearings ; 
but  Steno  claims,  under  his  noble  title  of  Stellifer,  an  impor- 
tant share  in  completing  the  chamber,  in  an  inscription  upon 
two  square  tablets,  now  inlaid  in  the  walls  on  each  side  of  the 
great  window  towards  the  sea  : 

“Mille  quadringenti  currebant  quatuor  anni 

Hoc  OPUS  ILLUSTRIS  MlCHAEL  DUX  STELLIFER  AUXIT.” 

And  in  fact  it  is  to  this  Doge  that  we  owe  the  beautiful 
balcony  of  that  window,  though  the  work  above  it  is  partly 
of  more  recent  date  ; and  I think  the  tablets  bearing  this  im- 
portant inscription  have  been  taken  out  and  reinserted  in  the 
newer  masonry.  The  labor  of  these  final  decorations  occupied 
a total  period  of  sixty  years.  The  Grand  Council  sat  in  the 
finished  chamber  for  the  first  time  in  1423.  In  that  year  the 
Gothic  Ducal  Palace  of  Venice  was  completed.  It  had  taken, 
to  build  it,  the  energies  of  the  entire  period  which  I have 
above  described  as  the  central  one  of  her  life. 

§ xx.  3rd.  The  Renaissance  Palace.  I must  go  back  a 
step  or  two,  in  order  to  be  certain  that  the  reader  understands 
clearly  the  state  of  the  palace  in  1423.  The  works  of  addition 
or  renovation  had  now  been  proceeding,  at  intervals,  during  a 
space  of  a hundred  and  twenty-three  years.  Three  genera- 
tions at  least  had  been  accustomed  to  witness  the  gradual 
advancement  of  the  form  of  the  Ducal  Palace  into  more 
stately  symmetry,  and  to  contrast  the  works  of  sculpture  and 
painting  with  which  it  was  decorated, — full  of  the  life,  knowl- 
edge, and  hope  of  the  fourteenth  century, — with  the  rude 
Byzantine  chiselling  of  the  palace  of  the  Doge  Ziani.  The 
magnificent  fabric  just  completed,  of  which  the  new  Council 
Chamber  was  the  nucleus,  was  now  habitually  known  in 
Venice  as  the  “ Palazzo  Nuovo ; ” and  the  old  Byzantine 

lio  et  si  fece  il  pergolo  del  finestra  grande  clii  guarda  sul  canale,  adorn* 
ato  1 uno  e V altro  di  stelle,  cli*  erano  1’  insegne  del  Doge.” — San$ovi?i(\ 
lib.  xiii.  Compare  also  Pared,  p.  129. 


296 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


edifice,  now  ruinous,  and  more  manifest  in  its  decay  by  its 
contrast  with  the  goodly  stones  of  the  building  which  had 
been  raised  at  its  side,  was  of  course  known  as  the  “Palazzo 
Vecchio.”  * That  fabric,  however,  still  occupied  the  principal 
position  in  Venice.  The  new  Council  Chamber  had  been 
erected  by  the  side  of  it  towards  the  Sea  ; but  there  was  not 
then  the  wide  quay  in  front,  the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni,  which 
now  renders  the  Sea  Fa9ade  as  important  as  that  to  the 
Piazzetta.  There  was  only  a narrow  walk  between  the  pillars 
and  the  water  ; and  the  old  palace  of  Ziani  still  faced  the 
Piazzetta,  and  interrupted,  by  its  decrepitude,  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  square  where  the  nobles  daily  met.  Every  in- 
crease of  the  beauty  of  the  new  palace  rendered  the  discrep- 
ancy between  it  and  the  companion  building  more  painful ; 
and  then  began  to  arise  in  the  minds  of  all  men  a vague  idea 
of  the  necessity  of  destroying  the  old  palace,  and  completing 
the  front  of  the  Piazzetta  with  the  same  splendor  as  the  Sea 
Fa9ade.  But  no  such  sweeping  measure  of  renovation  had 
been  contemplated  by  the  Senate  when  they  first  formed  the 
plan  of  their  new  Council  Chamber.  First  a single  additional 
room,  then  a gateway,  then  a larger  room  ; but  all  considered 
merely  as  necessary  additions  to  the  palace,  not  as  involving 
the  entire  reconstruction  of  the  ancient  edifice.  The  ex- 
haustion of  the  treasury,  and  the  shadows  upon  the  political 
horizon,  rendered  it  more  than  imprudent  to  incur  the  vast 
additional  expense  which  such  a project  involved  ; and  the 
Senate,  fearful  of  itself,  and  desirous  to  guard  against  the 
weakness  of  its  own  enthusiasm,  passed  a decree,  like  the 
effort  of  a man  fearful  of  some  strong  temptation  to  keep  his 
thoughts  averted  from  the  point  of  danger.  It  was  a decree, 
not  merely  that  the  old  palace  should  not  be  rebuilt,  but  that 
no  one  should  propose  rebuilding  it.  The  feeling  of  the 
desirableness  of  doing  so  was  too  strong  to  permit  fair  discus- 
sion,  and  the  Senate  knew  that  to  bring  forward  such  a motion 
was  to  carry  it. 

§ xxi.  The  decree,  thus  passed  in  order  to  guard  against 

* Baseggio  (Pareri,  p.  127)  is  called  the  Proto  of  the  New  Palace. 
Farther  notes  will  be  found  in  Appendix  1,  Vol.  III. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


297 


tlieir  own  weakness,  forbade  any  one  to  speak  of  rebuilding 
the  old  palace  under  the  penalty  of  a thousand  ducats.  But 
they  had  rated  their  own  enthusiasm  too  low  : there  was  a 
man  among  them  whom  the  loss  of  a thousand  ducats  could 
not  deter  from  proposing  what  he  believed  to  be  for  the  good 
of  the  state. 

Some  excuse  was  given  him  for  bringing  forward  the  mo- 
tion, by  a fire  which  occurred  in  1419,  and  which  injured  both 
the  church  of  St.  Mark’s,  and  part  of  the  old  palace  fronting 
the  Piazzetta.  What  followed,  I shall  relate  in  the  words  of 
Sanuto.* 

§ xxii.  “ Therefore  they  set  themselves  with  all  diligence 
and  care  to  repair  and  adorn  sumptuously,  first  God’s  house  ; 
but  in  the  Prince’s  house  things  went  on  more  slowly,  for  it 
did  not  please  the  Doge *j*  to  restore  it  in  the  form  in  which  it 
teas  before  ; and  they  could  not  rebuild  it  altogether  in  a bet- 
ter manner,  so  great  was  the  parsimony  of  these  old  fathers ; 
because  it  was  forbidden  by  laws,  which  condemned  in  a pen- 
alty of  a thousand  ducats  any  one  who  should  propose  to 
throw  down  the  old  palace,  and  to  rebuild  it  more  richly  and 
with  greater  expense.  But  the  Doge,  who  was  magnanimous, 
and  who  desired  above  all  things  what  was  honorable  to  the 
city,  had  the  thousand  ducats  carried  into  the  Senate  Cham- 
ber, and  then  proposed  that  the  palace  should  be  rebuilt ; 
saying  : that,  c since  the  late  fire  had  ruined  in  great  part  the 
Ducal  habitation  (not  only  his  own  private  palace,  but  all  the 
places  used  for  public  business)  this  occasion  was  to  be  taken 
for  an  admonishment  sent  from  God,  that  they  ought  to  re- 
build the  palace  more  nobly,  and  in  a way  more  befitting  the 
greatness  to  which,  by  God’s  grace,  their  dominions  had 
reached ; and  that  his  motive  in  proposing  this  was  neither 
ambition,  nor  selfish  interest : that,  as  for  ambition,  they 
might  have  seen  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life,  through  so 
many  years,  that  he  had  never  done  anything  for  ambition, 
either  in  the  city,  or  in  foreign  business  ; but  in  all  his  actions 
had  kept  justice  first  in  his  thoughts,  and  then  the  advantage 

* Cronaca  Sanudo,  No.  exxv.  in  the  Marcian  Library,  p.  568. 

f Tomaso  Mocenigo. 


298 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


of  the  state,  and  the  honor  of  the  Venetian  name : and  that, 
as  far  as  regarded  his  private  interest,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
this  accident  of  the  fire,  he  would  never  have  thought  of 
changing  anything  in  the  palace  into  either  a more  sumptuous 
or  a more  honorable  form  ; and  that  during  the  many  years 
in  which  he  had  lived  in  it,  he  had  never  endeavored  to  make 
any  change,  but  had  always  been  content  with  it,  as  his  prede^ 
cessors  had  left  it ; and  that  he  knew  well  that,  if  they  took 
in  hand  to  build  it  as  he  exhorted  and  besought  them,  being 
now  very  old,  and  broken  down  with  many  toils,  God  would 
call  him  to  another  life  before  the  avails  wrere  raised  a pace 
from  the  ground.  And  that  therefore  they  might  perceive 
that  he  did  not  advise  them  to  raise  this  building  for  his  ow-n 
convenience,  but  only  for  the  honor  of  the  city  and  its  Duke- 
dom * and  that  the  good  of  it  would  never  be  felt  by  him,  but 
by  his  successors.’  Then  he  said,  that  ‘in  order,  as  he  had 
always  done,  to  observe  the  laws,  ...  he  had  brought 
with  him  the  thousand  ducats  which  had  been  appointed  as 
the  penalty  for  proposing  such  a measure,  so  that  he  might 
prove  openly  to  all  men  that  it  was  not  his  own  advantage 
that  he  sought,  but  the  dignity  of  the  state.’  ” There  wras  no 
one  (Sanuto  goes  on  to  tell  us)  who  ventured,  or  desired,  to 
oppose  the  wishes  of  the  Doge  ; and  the  thousand  ducats  were 
unanimously  devoted  to  the  expenses  of  the  work.  * “And 
they  set  themselves  with  much  diligence  to  the  work  ; and  the 
palace  was  begun  in  the  form  and  manner  in  which  it  is  at 
present  seen ; but,  as  Mocenigo  had  prophesied,  not  long 
after,  he  ended  his  life,  and  not  only  did  not  see  the  work 
brought  to  a close,  but  hardly  even  begun.” 

§ xxiii.  There  are  one  or  two  expressions  in  the  above  ex- 
tracts which,  if  they  stood  alone,  might  lead  the  reader  to 
suppose  that  the  wiiole  palace  had  been  throwui  down  and  re- 
built. We  must  however  remember,  that,  at  this  time,  the 
new  Council  Chamber,  which  had  been  one  hundred  years  in 
building,  was  actually  unfinished,  the  council  had  not  yet  sat 
in  it  ; and  it  was  just  as  likely  that  the  Doge  should  then 
propose  to  destroy  and  rebuild  it,  as  in  this  year,  1858,  it  is 
that  any  one  should  propose  in  our  House  of  Commons  to 


TEE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


299 


throw  down  the  new  Houses  of  Parliament,  under  the  title  of 
the  “old  palace/’  and  rebuild  them. 

§ xxiv.  The  manner  in  which  Sanuto  expresses  himself  will 
at  once  be  seen  to  be  perfectly  natural,  when  it  is  remembered 
that  although  we  now  speak  of  the  whole  building  as  the 
“Ducal  Palace,”  it  consisted,  in  the  minds  of  the  old  Vene- 
tians, of  four  distinct  buildings.  There  were  in  it  the  palace, 
the  state  prisons,  the  senate-house,  and  the  offices  of  public 
business ; in  other  words,  it  was  Buckingham  Palace,  the 
Tower  of  olden  days,  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  and  Downing 
Street,  all  in  one  ; and  any  of  these  four  portions  might  be 
spoken  of,  without  involving  an  allusion  to  any  other.  “ II 
Palazzo  ” was  the  Ducal  residence,  which,  with  most  of  the 
public  offices,  Mocenigo  did  propose  to  pull  down  and  rebuild, 
and  which  was  actually  pulled  down  and  rebuilt.  But  the 
new  Council  Chamber,  of  which  the  whole  fayade  to  the  Sea 
consisted,  never  entered  into  either  his  or  Sanuto’s  mind  for 
an  instant,  as  necessarily  connected  with  the  Ducal  residence. 

I said  that  the  new  Council  Chamber,  at  the  time  when 
Mocenigo  brought  forward  his  measure,  had  never  yet  been 
used.  It  was  in  the  year  1422  * * * § that  the  decree  passed  to  re- 
build the  palace  : Mocenigo  died  in  the  following  year,f  and 
Francesco  Foscari  was  elected  in  his  room.  The  Great  Coun- 
cil Chamber  was  used  for  the  first  time  on  the  day  when 
Foscari  entered  the  Senate  as  Doge, — the  3rd  of  April,  1423, 
according  to  the  Caroldo  Chronicle  ; J the  23rd,  which  is  prob- 
ably correct,  by  an  anonymous  MS.,  No.  60,  in  the  Correr 
Museum  ; § — and,  the  following  year,  on  the  27th  of  March, 


* Vide  notes  in  Appendix. 

t On  the  4th  of  April,  1423,  according  to  the  copy  of  the  Zancarol 
(Chronicle  in  the  Marcian  Library,  but  previously,  according  to  the 
Caroldo  Chronicle,  which  makes  Foscari  enter  the  Senate  as  Doge  on 
the  3rd  of  April. 

X “ Nella  quale  (the  Sala  del  Gran  Consiglio)  non  si  fece  Gran  Consig- 
lio  salvo  nell’  anno  1423,  alii  3 April,  et  fu  il  primo  giorno  che  il  Duce 
Foscari  venisse  in  Gran  Consiglio  dopo  la  sua  creatione.”— Copy  in 
Marcian  Library,  p.  365. 

§ “ E a di  23  April  (1423,  by  the  context)  sequente  to  fatto  Gran  Com 


300 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  first  hammer  was  lifted  up  against  the  old  palace  of  Ziani  * 

§ xxv.  That  hammer  stroke  was  the  first  act  of  the  period 
properly  called  the  “ Renaissance.”  It  was  the  knell  of  the 
architecture  of  Venice, — and  of  Venice  herself. 

The  central  epoch  of  her  life  was  past ; the  decay  had 
already  begun  : I dated  its  commencement  above  (Ch.  I.  Vol. 
I.)  from  the  death  of  Mocenigo.  A year  had  not  yet  elapsed 
since  that  great  Doge  had  been  called  to  his  account : his 
patriotism,  always  sincere,  had  been  in  this  instance  mistaken ; 
in  his  zeal  for  the  honor  of  future  Venice,  he  had  forgotten 
what  was  due  to  the  Venice  of  long  ago.  A thousand  palaces 
might  be  built  upon  her  burdened  islands,  but  none  of  them 
could  take  the  place,  or  recall  the  memory,  of  that  which  was 
first  built  upon  her  unfrequented  shore.  It  fell ; and,  as  if  it 
had  been  the  talisman  of  her  fortunes,  the  city  never  flourished 
again. 

§ xxvi.  I have  no  intention  of  following  out,  in  their  intri- 
cate details,  the  operations  which  were  begun  under  Foscari 
and  continued  under  succeeding  Doges  till  the  palace  assumed 
its  present  form,  for  I am  not  in  this  work  concerned,  except 
by  occasional  reference,  with  the  architecture  of  the  fifteenth 
century : but  the  main  facts  are  the  following.  The  palace  of 
Ziani  was  destroyed  : the  existing  fa9ade  to  the  Piazzetta  built, 
so  as  both  to  continue  and  to  resemble,  in  most  particulars,  the 
work  of  the  Great  Council  Chamber.  It  was  carried  back 
from  the  Sea  as  far  as  the  Judgment  angle  ; be}rond  which 
is  the  Porta  della  Carta,  begun  in  1439,  and  finished  in  two 
years,  under  the  Doge  Foscari ; f the  interior  buildings  con- 
nected with  it  were  added  by  the  Doge  Christopher  Moro  (the 
Othello  of  Shakspeare)  J in  1462. 

seio  in  la  salla  nuovo  dovi  avanti  non  esta  pin  fatto  Gran  Conseio  si  che 
el  primo  Gran  Conseio  dopo  la  sua  (Foscari’s)  creation,  fo  fatto  in  la  salla 
nnova,  nel  qual  conseio  fu  el  Marchese  di  Mantoa,”  &c.,  p.  426. 

* Compare  Appendix  1,  Vol.  III. 

f “ Tutte  queste  fatture  si  compirono  sotto  il  dogado  del  Foscari,  nel 
1441.” — Pareri , p.  131. 

% This  identification  has  been  accomplished,  and  I think  conclusively, 
by  ray  friend  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown,  who  has  devoted  all  the  leisure  which, 
during  the  last  twenty  years,  his  manifold  offices  of  kindness  to  almost 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


301 


§ xxvii.  By  reference  to  the  figure  the  reader  will  see  that 
we  have  now  gone  the  round  of  the  palace,  and  that  the  new 
work  of  1462  was  close  upon  the  first  piece  of  the  Gothic 
palace,  the  new  Council  Chamber  of  1301.  Some  remnants  of 
the  Ziani  Palace  were  perhaps  still  left  between  the  two  ex- 
tremities of  the  Gothic  Palace  ; or,  as  is  more  probable,  the 
last  stones  of  it  may  have  been  swept  away  after  the  fire  of 
1419,  and  replaced  by  new  apartments  for  the  Doge.  But 
whatever  buildings,  old  or  new,  stood  on  this  spot  at  the  time 
of  the  completion  of  the  Porta  della  Carta  were  destroyed  by 
another  great  fire  in  1479,  together  with  so  much  of  the  palace 
on  the  Rio  that,  though  the  saloon  of  Gradenigo,  then  known 
as  the  Sala  de’  Pregadi,  was  not  destroyed,  it  became  necessary 
to  reconstruct  the  entire  fagades  of  the  portion  of  the  palace 
behind  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  both  towards  the  court  and  canal. 
This  work  was  entrusted  to  the  best  Renaissance  architects  of 
the  close  of  the  fifteenth  and  opening  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
turies ; Antonio  Ricci  executing  the  Giant’s  staircase,  and  on 
his  absconding  with  a large  sum  of  the  public  money,  Pietro 
Lombardo  taking  his  place.  The  whole  work  must  have  been 
completed  towards  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
architects  of  the  palace,  advancing  round  the  square  and  led 
by  fire,  had  more  than  reached  the  point  from  which  they  had 
set  out ; and  the  work  of  1560  was  joined  to  the  work  of  1301 
— 1340,  at  the  point  marked  by  the  conspicuous  vertical  line 
in  Figure  XXXVII.  on  the  Rio  Fagade. 

§ xxvui.  But  the  palace  was  not  long  permitted  to  remain 
in  this  finished  form.  Another  terrific  fire,  commonly  called 
the  great  fire,  burst  out  in  1574,  and  destroyed  the  inner  fit- 
tings and  all  the  precious  pictures  of  the  Great  Council  Cham- 
ber, and  of  all  the  upper  rooms  on  the  Sea  Fagade,  and  most 
of  those  on  the  Rio  Fagade,  leaving  the  building  a mere  shell, 
shaken  and  blasted  by  the  flames.  It  was  debated  in  the 

every  English,  visitant  of  Venice  have  left  him,  in  discovering  and  trans- 
lating the  passages  of  the  Venetian  records  which  bear  upon  English 
history  and  literature.  I shall  have  occasion  to  take  advantage  here- 
after of  a portion  of  his  labors,  which  I trust  will  shortly  be  made 
public. 


802 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 


Great  Council  whether  the  ruin  should  not  be  thrown  down, 
and  an  entirely  new  palace  built  in  its  stead.  The  opinions  of 
all  the  leading  architects  of  Venice  were  taken,  respecting  the 
safety  of  the  walls,  or  the  possibility  of  repairing  them  as  they 
stood.  These  opinions,  given  in  writing,  have  been  preserved, 
and  published  by  the  Abbe  Cadorin,  in  the  work  already  so 
often  referred  to  ; and  they  form  one  of  the  most  important 
series  of  documents  connected  with  the  Ducal  Palace. 

I cannot  help  feeling  some  childish  pleasure  in  the  acch 
dental  resemblance  to  my  own  name  in  that  of  the  architect 
whose  opinion  was  first  given  in  favor  of  the  ancient  fabric, 
Giovanni  Rusconi.  Others,  especially  Palladio,  wanted  to 
pull  down  the  old  palace,  and  execute  designs  of  their  own; 
but  the  best  architects  in  Venice,  and  to  his  immortal  honor, * 
chiefly  Francesco  Sansovino,  energetically  pleaded  for  the 
Gothic  pile,  and  prevailed.  It  was  successfully  repaired, 
and  Tintoret  painted  his  noblest  picture  on  the  wall  from 
which  the  Paradise  of  Guariento  had  withered  before  the 
flames. 

§ xxix.  The  repairs  necessarily  undertaken  at  this  time 
were  however  extensive,  and  interfere  in  many  directions  with 
the  earlier  work  of  the  palace  : still  the  only  serious  alteration 
in  its  form  was  the  transposition  of  the  prisons,  formerly  at 
the  top  of  the  palace,  to  the  other  side  of  the  Rio  del  Palazzo  ; 
and  the  building  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  to  connect  them  with 
the  palace,  by  Antonio  da  Ponte.  The  completion  of  this 
work  brought  the  whole  edifice  into  its  present  form  ; with 
the  exception  of  alterations  in  doors,  partitions,  and  staircases 
among  the  inner  apartments,  not  worth  noticing,  and  such 
barbarisms  and  defacements  as  have  been  suffered  within  the 
last  fifty  years,  by,  I suppose,  nearly  every  building  of  im- 
portance in  Italy. 

§ xxx.  Now,  therefore,  we  are  at  liberty  to  examine  some  of 
the  details  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  without  any  doubt  about  their 
dates.  I shall  not,  however,  give  any  elaborate  illustrations  of 
them  here,  because  I could  not  do  them  justice  on  the  scale 
of  the  page  of  this  volume,  or  by  means  of  line  engraving.  I 
believe  a new  era  is  opening  to  us  in  the  art  of  illustra- 


TEE  DTJCAL  PALACE. 


308 


tion,*  and  that  I shall  be  able  to  give  large  figures  of  the  details 
of  the  Ducal  Palace  at  a price  which  will  enable  every  person 
who  is  interested  in  the  subject  to  possess  them  ; so  that  the 
cost  and  labor  of  multiplying  illustrations  here  would  be  al- 
together wasted.  I shall  therefore  direct  the  reader’s  atten- 
tion only  to  such  points  of  interest  as  can  be  explained  in  the 
text. 

^ § xxxi.  First,  then,  looking  back  to  the  woodcut  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  chapter,  the  reader  will  observe  that,  as  the 
building  was  very  nearly  square  on  the  ground  plan,  a peculiar 
prominence  > and  importance  were  given  to  its  angles,  which 
rendered  it  necessary  that  they  should  be  enriched  and  soft- 
ened by  sculpture.  I do  not  suppose  that  the  fitness  of  this 
arrangement  will  be  questioned  ; but  if  the  reader  will  take 
the  pains  to  glance  over  any  series  of  engravings  of  church 
towers  or  other  four-square  buildings  in  which  great  refine- 
ment of  form  has  been  attained,  he  will  at  once  observe  how 
their  effect  depends  on  some  modification  of  the  sharpness  of 
the  angle,  either  by  groups  of  buttresses,  or  by  turrets  and 
niches  rich  in  sculpture.  It  is  to  be  noted  also  that  this  prin- 
ciple of  breaking  the  angle  is  peculiarly  Gothic,  arising  partly 
out  of  the  necessity  of  strengthening  the  flanks  of  enormous 
buildings,  where  composed  of  imperfect  materials,  by  but- 
tresses or  pinnacles  ; partly  out  of  the  conditions  of  Gothic 
warfare,  which  generally  required  a tower  at  the  angle ; partly 
out  of  the  natural  dislike  of  the  meagreness  of  effect  in  build- 
ings which  admitted  large  surfaces  of  wall,  if  the  angle  were 
entirely  unrelieved.  The  Ducal  Palace,  in  its  acknowledg- 
ment of  this  principle,  makes  a more  definite  concession  to  the 
Gothic  spirit  than  any  of  the  previous  architecture  of  Venice. 
No  angle,  up  to  the  time  of  its  erection,  had  been  otherwise 
decorated  than  by  a narrow  fluted  pilaster  of  red  marble,  and 
tne  sculpture  was  reserved  always,  as  in  Greek  and  Roman 
wor  % foi  the  plane  surfaces  of  the  building,  with,  as  far  as  I 
recollect,  two  exceptions  only,  both  in  St.  Mark’s ; namely,  the 
bold  and  grotesque  gargoyle  on  its  north-west  angle,  and  the 


See  the  last  chapter  of  the  third  volume. 


304 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


angels  which  project  from  the  four  inner  angles  under  the 
main  cupola  ; both  of  these  arrangements  being  plainly  made 
under  Lombardic  influence.  And  if  any  other  instances  oc- 
cur, which  I may  have  at  present  forgotten,  I am  very  sure 
the  Northern  influence  will  always  be  distinctly  traceable  in 
them. 

§ xxxii.  The  Ducal  Palace,  however,  accepts  the  principle 
in  its  completeness,  and  throws  the  main  decoration  upon  its 
angles.  The  central  window,  which  looks  rich  and  important 
in  the  woodcut,  was  entirely  restored  in  the  Benaissance  time, 
as  we  have  seen,  under  the  Doge  Steno  ; so  that  we  have  no 
traces  of  its  early  treatment ; and  the  principal  interest  of  the 
older  palace  is  concentrated  in  the  angle  sculpture,  which  is 
arranged  in  the  following  manner.  The  pillars  of  the  two 
bearing  arcades  are  much  enlarged  in  thickness  at  the  angles, 
and  their  capitals  increased  in  depth,  breadth,  and  fulness  of 
subject ; above  each  capital,  on  the  angle  of  the  wall,  a sculpt- 
ural subject  is  introduced,  consisting,  in  the  great  lower  ar- 
cade, of  two  or  more  figures  of  the  size  of  life  ; in  the  upper 
arcade,  of  a single  angel  holding  a scroll : above  these  angels 
rise  the  twisted  pillars  with  their  crowning  niches,  already 
noticed  in  the  account  of  parapets  in  the  seventh  chapter  ; 
thus  forming  an  unbroken  line  of  decoration  from  the  ground 
to  the  top  of  the  angle. 

§ xxxiii.  It  was  before  noticed  that  one  of  the  corners  of 
the  palace  joins  the  irregular  outer  buildings  connected  with 
St.  Mark’s,  and  is  not  generally  seen.  There  remain,  there- 
fore, to  be  decorated,  only  the  three  angles,  above  distinguished 
as  the  Vine  angle,  the  Fig-tree  angle,  and  the  Judgment  angle  ; 
and  at  these  we  have,  according  to  the  arrangement  just  ex- 
plained,— 

First,  Three  great  bearing  capitals  (lower  arcade). 

Secondly,  Three  figure  subjects  of  sculpture  above  them 
(lower  arcade). 

Thirdly,  Three  smaller  bearing  capitals  (upper  arcade). 

Fourthly,  Three  angels  above  them  (upper  arcade). 

Fifthly,  Three  spiral  shafts  with  niches. 

§ xxxiv.  I shall  describe  the  bearing  capitals  hereafter,  in 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


305 


their  order,  with  the  others  of  the  arcade  ; for  the  first  point 
to  which  the  reader’s  attention  ought  to  be  directed  is  the 
choice  of  subject  in  the  great  figure  sculptures  above  them. 
These,  observe,  are  the  very  corner  stones  of  the  edifice,  and 
in  them  we  may  expect  to  find  the  most  important  evidences 
of  the  feeling,  as  well  as  of  the  skill,  of  the  builder.  If  he 
has  anything  to  say  to  us  of  the  purpose  with  which  he  built 
the  palace,  it  is  sure  to  be  said  here  ; if  there  was  any  lesson 
which  he  wished  principally  to  teach  to  those  for  whom  he 
built,  here  it  is  sure  to  be  inculcated  ; if  there  was  any  senti- 
ment which  they  themselves  desired  to  have  expressed  in  the 
principal  edifice  of  their  city,  this  is  the  place  in  which  we 
may  be  secure  of  finding  it  legibly  inscribed. 

§ xxxv.  Now  the  first  two  angles,  of  the  Yine  and  Fig-tree, 
belong  to  the  old,  or  true  Gothic,  Palace  ; the  third  angle  be- 
longs to  the  Renaissance  imitation  of  it  : therefore,  at  the 
first  two  angles,  it  is  the  Gothic  spirit  which  is  going  to  speak 
to  us  ; and,  at  the  third,  the  Renaissance  spirit. 

The  reader  remembers,  I trust,  that  the  most  characteristic 
sentiment  of  all  that  we  traced  in  the  working  of  the  Gothic 
heart,  was  the  frank  confession  of  its  own  weakness ; and  I 
must  anticipate,  for  a moment,  the  results  of  our  inquiry  in 
subsequent  chapters,  so  far  as  to  state  that  the  principal  ele- 
ment in  the  Renaissance  spirit,  is  its  firm  confidence  in  its 
own  wisdom. 

Hear,  then,  the  two  spirits  speak  for  themselves. 

The  first  main  sculpture  of  the  Gothic  Palace  is  on  what  I 
have  called  the  angle  of  the  Fig-tree : 

Its  subject  is  the  Fall  of  Man. 

The  second  sculpture  is  on  the  angle  of  the  Yine : 

Its  subject  is  the  Drunkenness  of  Noah. 

The  Renaissance  sculpture  is  on  the  Judgment  angle  : 

Its  subject  is  the  Judgment  of  Solomon. 

It  is  impossible  to  overstate,  or  to  regard  with  too  much 
admiration,  the  significance  of  this  single  fact.  It  is  as  if  the 
palace  had  been  built  at  various  epochs,  and  preserved  unin- 
jured to  this  day,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  teaching  us  the  dif- 
ference in  the  temper  of  the  two  schools. 

Vol.  II.—' 20 


306 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE \ 


§ xxxvi.  I have  called  the  sculpture  on  the  Fig-tree  angle 
the  principal  one  ; because  it  is  at  the  central  bend  of  the 
palace,  where  it  turns  to  the  Piazzetta  (the  fayade  upon  the 
Piazzetta  being,  as  we  saw  above,  the  more  important  one  in 
ancient  times).  The  great  capital,  which  sustains  this  Fig- 
tree  angle,  is  also  by  far  more  elaborate  than  the  head  of  the 
pilaster  under  the  Vine  angle,  marking  the  preeminence  of 
the  former  in  the  architect’s  mind.  It  is  impossible  to  say 
which  was  first  executed,  but  that  of  the  Fig-tree  angle  is 
somewhat  rougher  in  execution,  and  more  stiff  in  the  design 
of  the  figures,  so  that  I rather  suppose  it  to  have  been  the 
earliest  completed. 

§ xxxvii.  In  both  the  subjects,  of  the  Fall  and  the  Drunk- 
enness, the  tree,  which  forms  the  chiefly  decorative  portion 
of  the  sculpture, — fig  in  the  one  case,  vine  in  the  other, — was 
a necessary  adjunct.  Its  trunk,  in  both  sculptures,  forms  the 
true  outer  angle  of  the  palace ; boldly  cut  separate  from  the 
stonework  behind,  and  branching  out  above  the  figures  so  as 
to  enwrap  each  side  of  the  angle,  for  several  feet,  with  its 
deep  foliage.  Nothing  can  be  more  masterly  or  superb  than 
the  sweep  of  this  foliage  on  the  Fig-tree  angle  ; the  broad 
leaves  lapping  round  the  budding  fruit,  and  sheltering  from 
sight,  beneath  their  shadows,  birds  of  the  most  graceful  form 
and  delicate  plumage.  The  branches  are,  however,  so  strong, 
and  the  masses  of  stone  hewn  into  leafage  so  large,  that,  not- 
withstanding the  depth  of  the  undercutting,  the  work  remains 
nearly  uninjured ; not  so  at  the  Vine  angle,  where  the  natural 
delicacy  of  the  vine-leaf  and  tendril  having  tempted  the  sculp- 
tor to  greater  effort,  he  has  passed  the  proper  limits  of  his 
art,  and  cut  the  upper  stems  so  delicately  that  half  of  them 
have  been  broken  away  by  the  casualties  to  which  the  situ- 
ation of  the  sculpture  necessarily  exposes  it.  What  remains 
is,  however,  so  interesting  in  its  extreme  refinement,  that  I 
have  chosen  it  for  the  subject  of  the  opposite  illustration 
rather  than  the  nobler  masses  of  the  fig-tree,  which  ought  to 
be  rendered  on  a larger  scale.  Although  half  of  the  beauty 
of  the  composition  is  destroyed  by  the  breaking  away  of  its 
central  masses,  there  is  still  enough  in  the  distribution!  of  the 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


307 


variously  bending  leaves,  and  in  tlie  placing  of  the  birds  on 
the  lighter  branches,  to  prove  to  us  the  power  of  the  designer. 
I have  already  referred  to  this  Plate  as  a remarkable  instance 
of  the  Gothic  Naturalism  ; and,  indeed,  it  is  almost  impossi- 
ble for  the  copying  of  nature  to  be  carried  farther  than  in  the 
fibres  of  the  marble  branches,  and  the  careful  finishing  of  the 
tendrils  : note  especially  the  peculiar  expression  of  the  knotty 
joints  of  the  vine  in  the  light  branch  which  rises  highest. 
Yet  only  half  the  finish  of  the  work  can  be  seen  in  the  Plate  : 
for,  in  several  cases,  the  sculptor  has  shown  the  under  sides 
of  the  leaves  turned  boldly  to  the  light,  and  has  literally 
carved  every  rib  and  vein  upon  them , in  relief ; not  merely  the 
main  ribs  which  sustain  the  lobes  of  the  leaf,  and  actually 
project  in  nature,  but  the  irregular  and  sinuous  veins  which 
chequer  the  membranous  tissue  between  them,  and  which  the 
sculptor  has  represented  conventionally  as  relieved  like  the 
others,  in  order  to  give  the  vine  leaf  its  peculiar  tessellated 
effect  upon  the  eye. 

§ xxxviii.  As  must  always  be  the  case  in  early  sculpture, 
the  figures  are  much  inferior  to  the  leafage  ; yet  so  skilful  in 
many  respects,  that  it  was  a long  time  before  I could  persuade 
myself  that  they  had  indeed  been  wrought  in  the  first  half  of 
the  fourteenth  centmy.  Fortunately,  the  date  is  inscribed 
upon  a monument  in  the  Church  of  San  Simeon  Grande, 
bearing  a recumbent  statue  of  the  saint,  of  far  finer  workman- 
ship, in  every  respect,  than  those  figures  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
yet  so  like  them,  that  I think  there  can  be  no  question  that 
the  head  of  Noah  was  wrought  by  the  sculptor  of  the  palace 
in  emulation  of  that  of  the  statue  of  St.  Simeon.  In  this 
latter  sculpture,  the  face  is  represented  in  death  ; the  mouth 
partly  open,  the  lips  thin  and  sharp,  the  teeth  carefully  sculpt- 
ured beneath  ; the  face  full  of  quietness  and  majesty,  though 
very  ghastly  ; the  hair  and  beard  flowing  in  luxuriant  wreaths, 
disposed  with  the  most  masterly  freedom,  yet  severity,  of  de- 
sign, far  down  upon  the  shoulders  ; the  hands  crossed  upon 
the  body,  carefully  studied,  and  the  veins  and  sinews  per- 
fectly and  easily  expressed,  yet  without  any  attempt  at  ex- 
treme finish  or  display  of  technical  skill.  This  monument 


308 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


bears  date  1317,*  and  its  sculptor  was  justly  proud  of  it  5 
thus  recording  his  name  : 

“Celavit  Marcus  opus  hoc  insigne  Homanis, 

Laudibus  non  parcus  est  SUA  DIGNA  MANUS.” 

§ xxxix.  The  head  of  the  Noah  011  the  Ducal  Palace,  evi- 
dently worked  in  emulation  of  this  statue,  has  the  same  pro- 
fusion of  flowing  hair  and  beard,  but  wrought  in  smaller  and 
harder  curls  ; and  the  veins  on  the  arms  and  breast  are  more 
sharply  drawn,  the  sculptor  being  evidently  more  practised  in 
keen  and  fine  lines  of  vegetation  than  in  those  of  the  figure  ; 
so  that,  which  is  most  remarkable  in  a workman  of  this  early 
period,  he  has  failed  in  telling  his  story  plainly,  regret  and 
wonder  being  so  equally  marked  on  the  features  of  all  the 
three  brothers  that  it  is  impossible  to  say  which  is  intended 
for  Ham.  Two  of  the  heads  of  the  brothers  are  seen  in  the 
Plate  ; the  third  figure  is  not  with  the  rest  of  the  group,  but 
set  at  a distance  of  about  twelve  feet,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
arch  which  springs  from  the  angle  capital. 

§ xl.  It  may  be  observed,  as  a farther  evidence  of  the  date 
of  the  group,  that,  in  the  figures  of  all  the  three  youths,  the 
feet  are  protected  simply  by  a bandage  arranged  in  crossed 
folds  round  the  ankle  and  lower  part  of  the  limb  ; a feature 
of  dress  which  will  be  found  in  nearly  every  piece  of  figure 
sculpture  in  Venice,  from  the  year  1300  to  1380,  and  of  which 
the  traveller  may  see  an  example  within  three  hundred  yards 
of  this  very  group,  in  the  bas-reliefs  on  the  tomb  of  the  Doge 
Andrea  Dandolo  (in  St.  Mark’s),  who  died  in  1354. 

§ xli.  The  figures  of  Adam  and  Eve,  sculptured  on  each 
side  of  the  Fig-tree  angle,  are  more  stiff  than  those  of  Noah 
and  his  sons,  but  are  better  fitted  for  their  architectural  ser- 
vice ; and  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  with  the  angular  body  of  the 
serpent  writhed  around  it,  is  more  nobly  treated  as  a terminal 
group  of  lines  than  that  of  the  vine. 

* “ IN  XRI — NOIE  AMEN  ANNINCARNATIONIS  MCCCXVII.  INESETBR. v 
<k  In  the  name  of  Christ,  Amen,  in  the  year  of  the  incarnation,  1817,  iu 
the  month  of  September,”  &c. 


Plate  XIX. — Leafage  of  the  Vine  Angle. 


TEE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


309 


The  Renaissance  sculptor  of  the  figures  of  the  Judgment 
of  Solomon  has  very  nearly  copied  the  fig-tree  from  this  angle, 
placing  its  trunk  between  the  executioner  and  the  mother, 
who  leans  forward  to  stay  his  hand.  But,  though  the  whole 
group  is  much  more  free  in  design  than  those  of  the  earlier 
palace,  and  in  many  ways  excellent  in  itself,  so  that  it  always 
strikes  the  eye  of  a careless  observer  more  than  the  others,  it 
is  of  immeasurably  inferior  spirit  in  the  workmanship  ; the 
leaves  of  the  tree,  though  far  more  studiously  varied  in  flow 
than  those  of  the  fig-tree  from  which  they  are  partially  copied, 
have  none  of  its  truth  to  nature  ; they  are  ill  set  on  the  stems, 
bluntly  defined  on  the  edges,  and  their  curves  are  not  those 
of  growing  leaves,  but  of  wrinkled  drapery. 

§ xlii.  Above  these  three  sculptures  are  set,  in  the  upper 
arcade,  the  statues  of  the  archangels  Raphael,  Michael,  and 
Gabriel : their  positions  will  be  understood  by  reference  to 
the  lowest  figure  in  Plate  XVII.,  where  that  of  Raphael  above 
the  Vine  angle  is  seen  on  the  right.  A diminutive  figure  of 
Tobit  follows  at  his  feet,  and  he  bears  in  his  hand  a scroll 
with  this  inscription  : 

EFICE  Q 
SOFRE 
TUR  AFA 
EL  REVE 
RENDE 
QUIETU 

i.e.  Effice  (quaeso  ?)  fretum,  Raphael  reverende,  quietum.*  I 
could  not  decipher  the  inscription  on  the  scroll  borne  by  the 
angel  Michael  ; and  the  figure  of  Gabriel,  which  is  by  much 
the  most  beautiful  feature  of  the  Renaissance  portion  of  the 
palace,  has  only  in  its  hand  the  Annunciation  lily. 

* “Oh,  venerable  Raphael,  make  thou  the  gulf  calm,  we  beseech 
thee.”  The  peculiar  office  of  the  angel  Raphael  is,  in  general,  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  the  restraining  the  harmful  influences  of  evil  spirits. 
Sir  Charles  Eastlake  told  me,  that  sometimes  in  this  office  he  is  repre- 
sented bearing  the  gall  of  the  fish  caught  by  Tobit ; and  reminded  me 
of  the  peculiar  superstitions  of  the  Venetians  respecting  the  raising  of 
storms  by  fiends,  as  embodied  in  the  well-known  tale  of  the  Fisherman 
and  St.  Mark’s  ring. 


310 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


§ xliii.  Such  are  the  subjects  of  the  main  sculptures  deco- 
rating the  angles  of  the  palace  ; notable,  observe,  for  their 
simple  expression  of  two  feelings,  the  consciousness  of  human 
frailty,  and  the  dependence  upon  Divine  guidance  and  pro- 
tection ; this  being,  of  course,  the  general  purpose  of  the  in- 
troduction of  the  figures  of  the  angels  ; and,  I imagine,  in- 
tended to  be  more  particularly  conveyed  by  the  manner  in 
which  the  small  figure  of  Tobit  follows  the  steps  of  Raphael, 
just  touching  the  hem  of  his  garment.  We  have  next  to  ex- 
amine the  course  of  divinity  and  of  natural  history  embodied 
by  the  old  sculpture  in  the  great  series  of  capitals  which  sup- 
port the  lower  arcade  of  the  palace  ; and  which,  being  at  a 
height  of  little  more  than  eight  feet  above  the  eye,  might  be 
read,  like  the  pages  of  a book,  by  those  (the  noblest  men  in 
Venice)  who  habitually  walked  beneath  the  shadow  of  this 
great  arcade  at  the  time  of  their  first  meeting  each  other  for 
morning  converse. 

§ xliv.  The  principal  sculptures  of  the  capitals  consist  of 
personifications  of  the  Virtues  and  Vices,  the  favorite  subjects 
of  decorative  art,  at  this  period,  in  all  the  cities  of  Italy  ; and 
there  is  so  much  that  is  significant  in  the  various  modes  of 
their  distinction  and  general  representation,  more  especially 
with  reference  to  their  occurrence  as  expressions  of  praise  to 
the  dead  in  sepulchral  architecture,  hereafter  to  be  examined, 
that  I believe  the  reader  may  both  happily  and  profitably  rest 
for  a little  while  beneath  the  first  vault  of  the  arcade,  to  re- 
view7 the  manner  in  which  these  symbols  of  the  virtues  were 
first  invented  by  the  Christian  imagination,  and  the  evidence 
they  generally  furnish  of  the  state  of  religious  feeling  in  those 
by  whom  they  w7ere  recognized. 

§ xlv.  In  the  early  ages  of  Christianity,  there  was  little 
care  taken  to  analyze  character.  One  momentous  question 
was  heard  over  the  whole  world, — Dost  thou  believe  in  the 
Lord  with  all  thine  heart?  There  was  but  one  division  among 
men, — the  great  unatoneable  division  between  the  disciple  and 
adversary.  The  love  of  Christ  was  all,  and  in  all ; and  in  pro- 
portion to  the  nearness  of  their  memory  of  His  person  and 
teaching,  men  understood  the  infinity  of  the  requirements  of 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


311 


the  moral  law,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  alone  could  be 
fulfilled.  The  early  Christians  felt  that  virtue,  like  sin,  was  a 
subtle  universal  thing,  entering  into  every  act  and  thought, 
appearing  outwardly  in  ten  thousand  diverse  ways,  diverse 
according  to  the  separate  framework  of  every  heart  in  which 
it  dwelt ; but  one  and  the  same  always  in  its  proceeding  from 
the  love  of  God,  as  sin  is  one  and  the  same  in  proceeding  from 
hatred  of  God.  And  in  their  pure,  early,  and  practical  piety, 
they  saw  there  was  no  need  for  codes  of  morality,  or  systems 
of  metaphysics.  Their  virtue  comprehended  everything,  en- 
tered into  everything  ; it  was  too  vast  and  too  spiritual  to  be 
defined  ; but  there  was  no  need  of  its  definition.  For  through 
faith,  working  by  love,  they  knew  that  all  human  excellence 
would  be  developed  in  due  order ; but  that,  without  faith, 
neither  reason  could  define,  nor  effort  reach,  the  lowest  phase 
of  Christian  virtue.  And  therefore,  when  any  of  the  Apostles 
have  occasion  to  describe  or  enumerate  any  forms  of  vice  or 
virtue  by  name,  there  is  no  attempt  at  system  in  their  words. 
They  use  them  hurriedly  and  energetically,  heaping  the 
thoughts  one  upon  another,  in  order  as  far  as  possible  to  fill 
the  reader’s  mind  with  a sense  of  the  infinity  both  of  crime 
and  of  righteousness.  Hear  St.  Paul  describe  sin : “ Being 
filled  with  all  unrighteousness,  fornication,  wickedness,  covet- 
ousness, maliciousness ; full  of  envy,  murder,  debate,  deceit, 
malignity ; whisperers,  backbiters,  haters  of  God,  despiteful, 
proud,  boasters,  inventors  of  evil  things,  disobedient  to  par- 
ents, without  understanding,  covenant  breakers,  without 
natural  affection,  implacable,  unmerciful.”  There  is  evidently 
here  an  intense  feeeling  of  the  universality  of  sin  ; and  in 
order  to  express  it,  the  Apostle  hurries  his  words  confusedly 
together,  little  caring  about  their  order,  as  knowing  all  the 
vices  to  be  indissolubly  connected  one  with  another.  It  would 
be  utterly  vain  to  endeavor  to  arrange  his  expressions  as  if 
they  had  been  intended  for  the  ground  of  any  system,  or  to 
give  any  philosophical  definition  of  the  vices.*  So  also  hear 

* In  the  original,  the  succession  of  words  is  evidently  suggested  partly 
by  similarity  of  sound ; and  the  sentence  is  made  weighty  by  an  alliter- 


312 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


him  speaking  of  virtue  : “ Rejoice  in  the  Lord.  Let  your 
moderation  be  known  unto  all  men.  Be  careful  for  nothincr. 
but  in  everything  let  your  requests  be  made  known  unto  God ; 
and  whatsoever  things  are  honest,  whatsoever  things  are  just, 
whatsoever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever  things  are  lovely, 
whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report,  if  there  be  any  virtue, 
and  if  there  be  any  praise,  think  on  these  things.”  Observe, 
he  gives  up  all  attempt  at  definition  ; he  leaves  the  definition 
to  every  man’s  heart,  though  he  writes  so  as  to  mark  the 
overflowing  fulness  of  his  own  vision  of  virtue.  And  so  it  is 
in  all  writings  of  the  Apostles  ; their  manner  of  exhortation, 
and  the  kind  of  conduct  they  press,  vary  according  to  the 
persons  they  address,  and  the  feeling  of  the  moment  at  which 
they  write,  and  never  show  any  attempt  at  logical  precision. 
And,  although  the  words  of  their  Master  are  not  thus  irregu- 
larly uttered,  but  are  weighed  like  fine  gold,  yet,  even  in  His 
teaching,  there  is  no  detailed  or  organized  system  of  morality ; 
but  the  command  only  of  that  faith  and  love  which  were  to 
embrace  the  whole  being  of  man  : “ On  these  two  command- 
ments hang  all  the  law  and  the  prophets.”  Here  and  there 
an  incidental  warning  against  this  or  that  more  dangerous 
form  of  vice  or  error,  “ Take  heed  and  beware  of  covetous- 
ness,” “ Beware  of  the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees ; ” here  and 
there  a plain  example  of  the  meaning  of  Christian  love,  as  in 
the  parables  of  the  Samaritan  and  the  Prodigal,  and  His  own 
perpetual  example  : these  were  the  elements  of  Christ’s  con- 
stant teaching  ; for  the  Beatitudes,  which  are  the  only  approxi- 
mation to  anything  like  a systematic  statement,  belong  to 
different  conditions  and  characters  of  individual  men,  not  to 
abstract  virtues.  And  all  early  Christians  taught  in  the  same 
manner.  They  never  cared  to  expound  the  nature  of  this  or 
that  virtue  ; for  they  knew  that  the  believer  who  had  Christ, 
had  all.  Bid  he  need  fortitude  ? Christ  was  his  rock : 
Equity?  Christ  was  his  righteousness:  Holiness?  Christ 
was  his  sanctification  : Liberty  ? Christ  was  his  redemption  : 

ation  which  is  quite  lost  in  our  translation  ; hut  the  very  allowance  of 
influence  to  these  minor  considerations  is  a proof  how  little  any  meta* 
physical  order  or  system  was  considered  necessary  in  the  statement. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


313 


Temperance  ? Christ  was  his  ruler  : Wisdom  ? Christ  was 
his  light : Truthfulness  ? Christ  was  the  truth : Charity  ? 
Christ  was  love. 

§ xlvl  Now,  exactly  in  proportion  as  the  Christian  religion 
became  less  vital,  and  as  the  various  corruptions  which  time 
and  Satan  brought  into  it  were  able  to  manifest  themselves, 
the  person  and  offices  of  Christ  were  less  dwelt  upon,  and 
the  virtues  of  Christians  more.  The  Life  of  the  Believer 
became  in  some  degree  separated  from  the  Life  of  Christ  ; and 
his  virtue,  instead  of  being  a stream  flowing  forth  from  the 
throne  of  God,  and  descending  upon  the  earth,  began  to  be 
regarded  by  him  as  a pyramid  upon  earth,  which  he  had 
to  build  up,  step  by  step,  that  from  the  top  of  it  he  might 
reach  the  Heavens.  It  was  not  possible  to  measure  the  waves 
of  the  water  of  life,  but  it  was  perfectly  possible  to  measure 
the  bricks  of  the  Tower  of  Babel  ; and  gradually,  as  the 
thoughts  of  men  were  withdrawn  from  their  Redeemer,  and 
fixed  upon  themselves,  the  virtues  began  to  be  squared,  and 
counted,  and  classified,  and  put  into  separate  heaps  of  firsts 
and  seconds  ; some  things  being  virtuous  cardinally,  and 
other  things  virtuous  only  north-north-west.  It  is  very* 
curious  to  put  in  close  juxtaposition  the  words  of  the  Apostles 
and  of  some  of  the  writers  of  the  fifteenth  century  touching 
sanctification.  For  instance,  hear  first  St.  Paul  to  the  Thes- 
salonians  : “ The  very  God  of  peace  sanctify  you  wholly  ; and 
I pray  God  your  whole  spirit  and  soul  and  body  be  preserved 
blameless  unto  the  coming  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Faithful 
is  he  that  calletli  you,  who  also  will  do  it.”  And  then  the 
following  part  of  a prayer  which  I translate  from  a MS.  of  the 
fifteenth  century  : “May  He  (the  Holy  Spirit)  govern  the  five 
Senses  of  my  body ; may  He  cause  me  to  embrace  the  Seven 
"Works  of  Mercy,  and  firmly  to  believe  and  observe  the  Twelve 
Articles  of  the  Faith  and  the  Ten  Commandments  of  the  Law, 
and  defend  me  from  the  Seven  Mortal  Sins,  even  to  the 
end.” 

§ xlvii.  I do  not  mean  that  this  quaint  passage  is  generally 
characteristic  of  the  devotion  of  the  fifteenth  century  : the 
very  prayer  out  of  which  it  is  taken  is  in  other  parts  exceed- 


314 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ingly  beautiful : * but  the  passage  is  strikingly  illustrative  o! 
the  tendency  of  the  later  Romish  Church,  more  especially 
in  its  most  corrupt  condition,  just  before  the  Reformation,  to 
throw  all  religion  into  forms  and  ciphers  ; which  tendency,  as 
it  affected  Christian  ethics,  was  confirmed  by  the  Renaissance 
enthusiasm  for  the  works  of  Aristotle  and  Cicero,  from  whom 
the  code  of  the  fifteenth  century  virtues  was  borrowed,  and 
whose  authority  was  then  infinitely  more  revered  by  all  the 
Doctors  of  the  Church  than  that  either  of  St.  Paul  or  St. 
Peter. 

* It  occurs  in  a prayer  for  tlie  influence  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  u That  He 
may  keep  my  soul,  and  direct  my  way ; compose  my  hearing,  and  form 
my  tli oughts  in  holiness  ; may  He  govern  my  body,  and  protect  my 
mind  ; strengthen  me  in  action,  approve  my  vows,  and  accomplish  my 
desires  ; cause  me  to  lead  an  honest  and  honorable  life,  and  give  me 
good  hope,  charity  and  chastity,  humility  and  patience  : may  He  govern 
the  Five  Senses  of  my  body,”  &c.  The  following  prayer  is  also  very 
characteristic  of  this  period.  It  opens  with  a beautiful  address  to  Christ 
upon  the  cross  ; then  proceeds  thus:  “ Grant  to  us,  O Lord,  we  beseech 
thee,  this  day  and  ever,  the  use  of  penitence,  of  abstinence,  of  humility, 
and  chastity  ; and  grant  to  us  light,  judgment,  understanding,  and  true 
knowledge,  even  to  the  end.”  One  thing  I note  in  comparing  old 
prayers  with  modern  ones,  that  however  quaint,  or  however  erring, 
they  are  always  tenfold  more  condensed,  comprehensive,  and  to  their 
purpose,  whatever  that  may  be.  There  is  no  dilution  in  them,  no  vain 
or  monotonous  phraseology.  They  ask  for  what  is  desired  plainly 
and  earnestly,  and  never  could  be  shortened  by  a syllable.  The  follow- 
ing series  of  ejaculations  are  deep  in  spirituality,  and  curiously  to  our 
present  purpose  in  the  philological  quaintness  of  being  built  upon  prep- 
ositions : — 

“ Domine  Jesu  Christe,  sancta  cruce  tua  apud  me  sis,  ut  me  defendas. 

Domine  Jesu  Christe,  pro  veneranda  cruce  tua  post  me  sis,  ut  me 
gubernes. 

Domine  Jesu  Christe,  pro  benedicta  cruce  tua  intra  me  sis,  ut  me  re- 
ficeas. 

Domine  Jesu  Christe,  pro  benedicta  cruce  tua  circa  me  sis,  ut  me  com 
serves. 

Domine  Jesu  Christe,  pro  gloriosa  cruce  tua  ante  me  sis,  ut  me  de- 
duces. 

Domine  Jesu  Christe,  pro  laudanda  cruce  tua  super  me  sis,  ut  bene- 
dicas. 

Domine  Jesu  Christe,  pro  magnifica  cruce  tua  in  me  sis,  ut  me  ad 
regnum  tuum  perducas,  per  D.  N.  J.  C.  Amen.” 


315 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 

§ xlviii.  Although,  however,  this  change  in  the  tone  of  the 
Christian  mind  was  most  distinctly  manifested  when  the  re- 
vival of  literature  rendered  the  works  of  the  heathen  philoso- 
phers the  leading  study  of  all  the  greatest  scholars  of  the 
period,  it  had  been,  as  I said  before,  taking  place  gradually 
from  the  earliest  ages.  It  is,  as  far  as  I know,  that  root  of 
the  Renaissance  poison-tree,  which,  of  all  others,  is  deepest 
struck  ; showing  itself  in  various  measures  through  the  writ- 
ings of  all  the  Fathers,  of  course  exactly  in  proportion  to  the 
respect  which  they  paid  to  classical  authors,  especially  to 
Plato,  Aristotle,  and  Cicero.  The  mode  in  which  the  pestilent 
study  of  that  literature  affected  them  may  be  well  illustrated 
by  the  examination  of  a single  passage  from  the  works  of  one 
of  the  best  of  them,  St.  Ambrose,  and  of  the  mode  in  which  that 
passage  was  then  amplified  and  formulized  by  later  writers. 

§ xlix.  Plato,  indeed,  studied  alone,  would  have  done  no  one 
any  harm.  He  is  profoundly  spiritual  and  capacious  in  all 
his  views,  and  embraces  the  small  systems  of  Aristotle  and 
Cicero,  as  the  solar  system  does  the  Earth.  He  seems  to  me 
especially  remarkable  for  the  sense  of  the  great  Christian  virtue 
of  Holiness,  or  sanctification  ; and  for  the  sense  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Deity  in  all  things,  great  or  small,  which  always 
runs  in  a solemn  undercurrent  beneath  his  exquisite  playful- 
ness and  irony  ; while  all  the  merely  moral  virtues  may  be 
found  in  his  writings  defined  in  the  most  noble  manner,  as  a 
great  painter  defines  his  figures,  without  outlines.  But  the 
imperfect  scholarship  of  later  ages  seems  to  have  gone  to 
Plato,  only  to  find  in  him  the  system  of  Cicero ; which  indeed 
was  very  definitely  expressed  by  him.  For  it  having  been 
quickly  felt  by  all  men  who  strove,  unhelped  by  Christian 
faith,  to  enter  at  the  strait  gate  into  the  paths  of  virtue, 
that  there  were  four  characters  of  mind  which  were  protective 
or  preservative  of  all  that  was  best  in  man,  namely,  Prudence, 
Justice,  Courage,  and  Temperance,*  these  were  afterwards, 

* This  arrangement  of  the  cardinal  virtues  is  said  to  have  been  first 
made  by  Archytas.  See  D’Ancarville’s  illustration  of  the  three  figures 
of  Prudence,  Fortitude,  and  Charity,  in  Selvatico’s  “ Cappellina  degli 
Scrovegni,”  Padua,  18-36. 


316 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


with  most  illogical  inaccuracy,  called  cardinal  virtues , Pru- 
dence being  evidently  no  virtue,  but  an  intellectual  gift : but 
this  inaccuracy  arose  partly  from  the  ambiguous  sense  of  the 
Latin  word  “ virtutes,”  which  sometimes,  in  mediaeval  lan- 
guage, signifies  virtues,  sometimes  powers  (being  occasionally 
used  in  the  Vulgate  for  the  word  “ hosts,"  as  in  Psalm  ciii.  21, 
cxlviii.  2,  &c.,  while  “ fortitudines ” and  “ exercitus 55  are  used 
for  the  same  word  in  other  places),  so  that  Prudence  might 
properly  be  styled  a power,  though  not  properly  a virtue  ; and 
partly  from  the  confusion  of  Prudence  with  Heavenly  Wisdom. 
The  real  rank  of  these  four  virtues,  if  so  they  are  to  be  called, 
is  however  properly  expressed  by  the  term  “ cardinal.”  They 
are  virtues  of  the  compass,  those  by  which  all  others  are  di- 
rected and  strengthened  ; they  are  not  the  greatest  virtues, 
but  the  restraining  or  modifying  virtues,  thus  Prudence  re- 
strains zeal,  Justice  restrains  mercy,  Fortitude  and  Temper- 
ance guide  the  entire  system  of  the  passions ; and,  thus  un- 
derstood, these  virtues  properly  assumed  their  peculiar  leading 
or  guiding  position  in  the  system  of  Christian  ethics.  But  in 
Pagan  ethics,  they  were  not  only  guiding,  but  comprehensive. 
They  meant  a great  deal  more  on  the  lips  of  the  ancients, 
than  they  now  express  to  the  Christian  mind.  Cicero’s  Justice 
includes  charity,  beneficence,  and  benignity,  truth,  and  faith 
in  the  sense  of  trustworthiness.  His  Fortitude  includes  cour- 
age, self-command,  the  scorn  of  fortune  and  of  all  temporary 
felicities.  His  Temperance  includes  courtesy  and  modesty. 
So  also,  in  Plato,  these  four  virtues  constitute  the  sum  of  ed- 
ucation. I do  not  remember  any  more  simple  or  perfect  ex- 
pression of  the  idea,  than  in  the  account  given  by  Socrates, 
in  the  “ Alcibiades  I.,”  of  the  education  of  the  Persian  kings, 
for  whom,  in  their  youth,  there  are  chosen,  he  says,  four 
tutors  from  among  the  Persian  nobles ; namely,  the  Wisest, 
the  most  Just,  the  most  Temperate,  and  the  most  Brave  of 
them.  Then  each  has  a distinct  duty  : “ The  Wisest  teaches 
the  young  king  the  worship  of  the  gods,  and  the  duties  of  a 
king  (something  more  here,  observe,  than  our  ‘ Prudence  ! ’) ; 
the  most  Just  teaches  him  to  speak  all  truth,  and  to  act  out 
all  truth,  through  the  whole  course  of  his  life  ; the  most  Tem- 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


317 


perate  teaches  him  to  allow  no  pleasure  to  have  the  mastery 
of  him,  so  that  he  may  be  truly  free,  and  indeed  a king  ; and 
the  most  Brave  makes  him  fearless  of  all  things,  showing  him 
that  the  moment  he  fears  anything,  he  becomes  a slave.” 

§ l.  All  this  is  exceedingly  beautiful,  so  far  as  it  reaches  ; 
but  the  Christian  divines  were  grievously  led  astray  by  their 
endeavors  to  reconcile  this  system  with  the  nobler  law  of  love. 
At  first,  as  in  the  passage  I am  just  going  to  quote  from  St. 
Ambrose,  they  tried  to  graft  the  Christian  system  on  the  four 
branches  of  the  Pagan  one  ; but  finding  that  the  tree  would 
not  grow,  they  planted  the  Pagan  and  Christian  branches 
side  by  side  ; adding,  to  the  four  cardinal  virtues,  the  three 
called  by  the  schoolmen  theological,  namely,  Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity : the  one  series  considered  as  attainable  by  the 
Heathen,  but  the  other  by  the  Christian  only.  Thus  Virgil 
to  Sordello  : 

4<  Loco  e laggiu,  non  tristo  da  martiri 
Ma  di  tenebre  solo,  ovo  i lamenti 
Non  suonan  come  guai,  ma  son  sospiri : 


Quivi  sto  io,  con  quei  die  le  tre  sante 
.Virtu  non  si  vestiro,  e senza  vizio 
Conobber  V altre,  e seguir,  tutte  quante.” 

“ TlierS  I with  those  abide 

Who  the  Three  Holy  Virtues  put  not  on, 

But  understood  the  rest,  and  without  blame 
Followed  them  all.” 

Cary. 

§ li.  This  arrangement  of  the  virtues  was,  however,  pro- 
ductive of  infinite  confusion  and  error  : in  the  first  place, 
because  Faith  is  classed  with  its  own  fruits, — the  gift  of  God, 
which  is  the  root  of  the  virtues,  classed  simply  as  one  of  them  ; 
in  the  second,  because  the  words  used  by  the  ancients  to 
express  the  several  virtues  had  always  a different  meaning 
from  the  same  expressions  in  the  Bible,  sometimes  a more 
extended,  sometimes  a more  limited  one.  Imagine,  for  in- 
stance, the  confusion  which  must  have  been  introduced  into 


318 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  ideas  of  a student  who  read  St.  Paul  and  Aristotle  alter< 
nately  ; considering  that  the  word  which  the  Greek  writer 
uses  for  Justice,  means,  with  St.  Paul,  .Righteousness.  And 
lastly,  it  is  impossible  to  overrate  the  mischief  produced  in 
former  days,  as  well  as  in  our  own,  by  the  mere  habit  of 
reading  Aristotle,  whose  system  is  so  false,  so  forced,  and  so 
confused,  that  the  study  of  it  at  our  universities  is  quite 
enough  to  occasion  the  utter  want  of  accurate  habits  of 
thought  which  so  often  disgraces  men  otherwise  well-edu- 
cated. In  a word,  Aristotle  mistakes  the  Prudence  or  Tem- 
perance which  must  regulate  the  operation  of  the  virtues, 
for  the  essence  of  the  virtues  themselves  ; and,  striving  to 
show  that  all  virtues  are  means  between  two  opposite  vices, 
torments  his  wit  to  discover  and  distinguish  as  many  pairs 
of  vices  as  are  necessary  to  the  completion  of  his  system,  not 
disdaining  to  employ  sophistry  where  invention  fails  him. 

And,  indeed,  the  study  of  classical  literature,  in  general, 
not  only  fostered  in  the  Christian  writers  the  unfortunate 
love  of  systematizing,  which  gradually  degenerated  into  every 
species  of  contemptible  formulism,  but  it  accustomed  them 
to  work  out  their  systems  by  the  help  of  any  logical  quibble, 
or  verbal  subtlety,  which  could  be  made  available  for  their 
purpose,  and  this  not  with  any  dishonest  intention,  but  in  a 
sincere  desire  to  arrange  their  ideas  in  systematical  groups, 
while  yet  their  powers  of  thought  were  not  accurate  enough, 
nor  their  common  sense  stern  enough,  to  detect  the  fallacy, 
or  disdain  the  finesse,  by  which  these  arrangements  were  fre- 
quently accomplished. 

§ lii.  Thus  St.  Ambrose,  in  his  commentary  on  Luke  vi. 
20,  is  resolved  to  transform  the  four  Beatitudes  there  de- 
scribed into  rewards  of  the  four  cardinal  Virtues,  and  sets 
himself  thus  ingeniously  to  the  task  : 

“ ‘ Blessed  be  ye  poor.’  Here  you  have  Temperance. 
‘ Blessed  are  ye  that  hunger  now.’  He  who  hungers,  pities 
those  who  are  an-hungered  ; in  pitying,  he  gives  to  them, 
and  in  giving  he  becomes  just  (largiendo  fit  justus).  c Blessed 
are  ye  that  weep  now,  for  ye  shall  laugh.’  Here  you  have 
Prudence,  whose  part  it  is  to  weep,  so  far  as  present  things 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


319 


are  concerned,  and  to  seek  things  which  are  eternal.  ‘ Bless- 
ed are  ye  when  men  shall  hate  you.’  Here  you  have  Forti- 
tude." 

§ liii.  As  a preparation  for  this  profitable  exercise  of  wit,  we 
have  also  a reconciliation  of  the  Beatitudes  as  stated  by  St. 
Matthew,  with  those  of  St.  Luke,  on  the  ground  that  “in 
those  eight  are  these  four,  and  in  these  four  are  those  eight ; " 
with  sundry  remarks  on  the  mystical  value  of  the  number 
eight,  with  which  I need  not  trouble  the  reader.  With  St. 
Ambrose,  however,  this  puerile  systematization  is  quite  sub- 
ordinate to  a very  forcible  and  truthful  exposition  of  the  real 
nature  of  the  Christian  life.  But  the  classification  he  em- 
ploys furnishes  ground  for  farther  subtleties  to  future  divines  ; 
and  in  a MS.  of  the  thirteenth  century  I find  some  expres- 
sions in  this  commentary  on  St.  Luke,  and  in  the  treatise  on 
the  duties  of  bishops,  amplified  into  a treatise  on  the  “ Steps 
of  the  Virtues  : by  which  every  one  who  perseveres  may,  by 
a straight  path,  attain  to  the  heavenly  country  of  the  Angels." 
(“Liber  de  Gradibus  Virtutum  : quibus  ad  patriam  ange- 
lorum  supernam  itinere  recto  ascenditur  ab  omni  perseve- 
rante.")  These  Steps  are  thirty  in  number  (one  expressly  for 
each  day  of  the  month),  and  the  curious  mode  of  their  asso- 
ciation renders  the  list  well  worth  quoting  : 


§ Liv.  Primus  gradus  est  Fides  Recta. 

Unerring  faith. 

Secundus 

<< 

Spes  firma. 

Firm  hope. 

Tertius 

a 

Caritas  perfecta. 

Perfect  charity. 

4. 

u 

Patientia  vera. 

True  patience. 

5. 

< i 

Humilitas  sancta. 

Holy  humility. 

6. 

u 

Mansuetudo. 

Meekness. 

7. 

u 

Intelligentia. 

Understanding. 

8. 

a 

Compunctio  cordis. 

Contrition  of  heart. 

9. 

a 

Oratio. 

Prayer. 

10. 

1 i 

Confessio  pura. 

Pure  confession. 

11. 

a 

Penitentia  digna. 

Fitting  penance.* 

12. 

( i 

Abstinentia. 

Abstinence  (fasting). 

13. 

u 

Timor  Dei. 

Fear  of  God. 

14. 

(< 

Virginitas. 

Virginity. 

* Or  Penitence  : but  I rattier  think  this  is  understood  only  in  Com* 
punctio  cordis. 


320 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


15.  gradus 

est  Justicia. 

Justice. 

16. 

u 

Misericordia. 

Mercy. 

17. 

tt 

Elemosina. 

Almsgiving. 

18. 

tt 

Hospitalitas. 

Hospitality. 

19. 

tt 

Honor  parentum. 

Honoring  of  parents. 

20. 

it 

Silencium. 

Silence. 

21. 

tt 

Consilium  bonum. 

Good  counsel. 

22. 

tt 

Judicium  rectum. 

Right  judgment. 

23. 

it 

Exemplum  bonum. 

Good  example. 

24. 

it 

Visitatio  infirmorum. 

Visitation  of  the  sick. 

25. 

tt 

Frequentatio  sancto- 

Companying with 

rum. 

saints. 

26. 

it 

Oblatio  justa. 

Just  oblations. 

27. 

tt 

Decimas  Deo  solvere. 

Paying  tithes  to  God. 

28. 

tt 

Sapientia. 

Wisdom. 

29. 

tt 

Voluntas  bona. 

Goodwill. 

30. 

It 

Perse  verantia. 

Perseverance. 

§ ly.  The  reader  will  note  that  the  general  idea  of  Christian 
virtue  embodied  in  this  list  is  true,  exalted,  and  beautiful ; the 
points  of  weakness  being  the  confusion  of  duties  with  virtues, 
and  the  vain  endeavor  to  enumerate  the  various  offices  of 
charity  as  so  many  separate  virtues  ; more  frequently  arranged 
as  seven  distinct  works  of  mercy.  This  general  tendency  to  a 
morbid  accuracy  of  classification  was  associated,  in  later  times, 
with  another  very  important  element  of  the  Kenaissance  mind, 
the  love  of  personification  ; which  appears  to  have  reached  its 
greatest  vigor  in  the  course  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  is 
expressed  to  all  future  ages,  in  a consummate  manner,  in  the 
poem  of  Spenser.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  personification  is,  in 
some  sort,  the  reverse  of  symbolism,  and  is  far  less  noble. 
Symbolism  is  the  setting  forth  of  a great  truth  by  an  imperfect 
and  inferior  sign  (as,  for  instance,  of  the  hope  of  the  resurrec- 
tion by  the  form  of  the  phoenix)  ; and  it  is  almost  always 
employed  by  men  in  their  most  serious  moods  of  faith,  rarely 
in  recreation.  Men  who  use  symbolism  forcibly  are  almost 
always  true  believers  in  what  they  symbolize.  But  Personifi- 
cation is  the  bestowing  of  a human  or  living  form  upon  an  ab- 
stract idea  : it  is,  in  most  cases,  a mere  recreation  of  the  fancy, 
and  is  apt  to  disturb  the  belief  in  the  reality  of  the  thing  per- 


TEE  DECAL  PALACE.  321 

sonified.  Thus  symbolism  constituted  the  entire  system  of  the 
Mosaic  dispensation  : it  occurs  in  every  word  of  Christ’s 
teaching  ; it  attaches  perpetual  mystery  to  the  last  and  most 
solemn  act  of  His  life.  But  I do  not  recollect  a single  instance 
of  personification  in  any  of  His  words.  And  as  we  watch 
thenceforward,  the  history  of  the  Church,  we  shall  find  the 
declension  of  its  faith  exactly  marked  by  the  abandonment  of 
symbolism,*  and  the  profuse  employment  of  personification  — 
even  to  such  an  extent  that  the  virtues  came,  at  last,  to  be 
confused  with  the  saints;  and  we  find  in  the  later  Litanies, 
St.  -Faith,  St.  Hope,  St.  Charity,  and  St.  Chastity,  invoked  im- 
mediately after  St.  Clara  and  St.  Bridget. 

§ lvi.  Nevertheless,  in  the  hands  of  its  early  and  earnest 
masters,  m whom  fancy  could  not  overthrow  the  foundations 
ol  faith  personification  is  often  thoroughly  noble  and  lovely  • 
the  earlier  conditions  of  it  being  just  as  much  more  spiritual 
and  vital  than  the  later  ones,  as  the  still  earlier  symbolism  was 
more  spiritual  than  they.  Compare,  for  instance,  Dante’s 
burning  Charity,  running  and  returning  at  the  wheels  of  the 
chariot  of  God,— 


“ So  ruddy,  that  her  form  had  scarce 
Been  known  within  a furnace  of  clear  flame,” 

with  Reynolds’s  Charity,  a nurse  in  a white  dress,  climbed 
upon  by  three  children.!  And  not  only  so,  but  the  number 
d natuie  of  the  virtues  differ  considerably  in  the  statements 
ot  diffeient  poets  and  painters,  acccording  to  their  own  views 
of  religion,  or  to  the  manner  of  life  they  had  it  in  mind  to 
illustrate.  Giotto,  for  instance,  arranges  his  system  altogether 
fferently  at  Assisi,  where  he  is  setting  forth  the  monkish 
, and  in  the  Arena  Chapel,  where  he  treats  of  that  of 
Ij11.  ,1.D  8en®rat  an<!  where,  therefore,  he  gives  only  the 
- a ed  theological  and  cardinal  virtues ; while,  at  Assisi, 

stall^rr'T1  °f  lSJ“b01  hlt°  realit-v’  °bs*rve,  as  in  transub- 

ness  of  svrnb  r “ abandoninent  of  symbolism  as  the  forgetful- 

ness  or  symbolic  meaning  altogether.  5 

f Oil  the  window  of  New  College,  Oxford. 

Von.  II. — 21 


322 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  three  principal  virtues  are  those  which  are  reported  to 
have  appeared  in  vision  to  St.  Francis,  Chastity,  Obedience, 
and  Poverty  : Chastity  being  attended  by  Fortitude,  Purity, 
and  Penance  ; Obedience  by  Prudence  and  Humility  ; Poverty 
by  Hope  and  Charity.  The  systems  vary  with  almost  every 
writer,  and  in  almost  every  important  work  of  art  which 
embodies  them,  being  more  or  less  spiritual  according  to  the 
power  of  intellect  by  which  they  were  conceived.  The  most 
noble  in  literature  are,  I suppose,  those  of  Dante  and  Spenser  : 
and  with  these  we  may  compare  five  of  the  most  interesting 
series  in  the  early  art  of  Italy  ; namely,  those  of  Orcagna, 
Giotto,  and  Simon  Memmi,  at  Florence  and  Padua,  and  those 
of  St.  Mark’s  and  the  Ducal  Palace  at  Venice.  Of  course, 
in  the  richest  of  these  series,  the  vices  are  personified  together 
with  the  virtues,  as  in  the  Ducal  Palace  ; and  by  the  form  or 
name  of  opposed  vice,  we  may  often  ascertain,  with  much 
greater  accuracy  than  would  otherwise  be  possible,  the  par- 
ticular idea  of  the  contrary  virtue  in  the  mind  of  the  writer 
or  painter.  Thus,  when  opposed  to  Prudence,  or  Prudentia, 
on  the  one  side,  we  find  Folly,  or  Stultitia,  on  the  other,  it 
shows  that  the  virtue  understood  by  Prudence,  is  not  the 
mere  guiding  or  cardinal  virtue,  but  the  Heavenly  Wisdom,* 
opposed  to  that  folly  which  “ hath  said  in  its  heart,  there  is 
no  God  ; ” and  of  which  it  is  said,  “ the  thought  of  foolishness 
is  sin  ; ” and  again,  “ Such  as  be  foolish  shall  not  stand  in  thy 
sight.  ” This  folly  is  personified,  in  early  painting  and  illumi- 
nation, by  a half-naked  man,  greedily  eating  an  apple  or  other 
fruit,  and  brandishing  a club  ; showing  that  sensuality  and 
violence  are  the  two  principal  characteristics  of  Foolishness, 
and  lead  into  atheism.  The  figure,  in  early  Psalters,  always 
forms  the  letter  D,  which  commences  the  fifty-third  Psalm, 
“ Dixit  insipiens.” 

§ lvii.  In  reading  Dante,  this  mode  of  reasoning  from 
contraries  is  a great  help,  for  his  philosophy  of  the  vices  ii 
the  onty  one  which  admits  of  classification  ; his  description? 
of  virtue,  while  they  include  the  ordinary  formal  divisions 

* Uniting  the  three  ideas  expressed  by  the  Greek  philosophers  unfit 
the  terms  (pp6vr]li , (rocpia , and  ; and  part  of  the  idea  of  aw(ppocruv\ 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


323 


are  far  too  profound  and  extended  to  be  brought  under  defi- 
nition. Every  line  of  the  “ Paradise  ” is  full  of  the  most 
exquisite  and  spiritual  expressions  of  Christian  truth  ; and 
that  poem  is  only  less  read  than  the  “ Inferno  ” because  it 
requires  far  greater  attention,  and,  perhaps,  for  its  full  enjoy- 
ment, a holier  heart. 

§ lviii.  His  system  in  the  “ Inferno  ” is  briefly  this.  The 
whole  nether  world  is  divided  into  seven  circles,  deep  within 
deep,  in  each  of  which,  according  to  its  depth,  severer  punish- 
ment is  inflicted.  These  seven  circles,  reckoning  them  down- 
wards, are  thus  allotted : 

1.  To  those  who  have  lived  virtuously,  but  knew  not  Christ. 

2.  To  Lust. 

3.  To  Gluttony. 

4.  To  Avarice  and  Extravagance. 

5.  To  Anger  and  Sorroiv. 

6.  To  Heresy. 

7.  To  Violence  and  Fraud. 

Tins  seventh  circle  is  divided  into  two  parts  ; of  which  the 
first,  reserved  for  those  who  have  been  guilty  of  Violence,  is 
again  divided  into  three,  apportioned  severally  to  those  who 
have  committed,  or  desired  to  commit,  violence  against  their 
neighbors,  against  themselves,  or  against  God. 

The  lowest  hell,  reserved  for  the  punishment  of  Fraud,  is 
itself  divided  into  ten  circles,  wherein  are  severally  punished 
the  sins  of, — 

1.  Betraying  women. 

2.  Flattery. 

3.  Simony. 

4.  False  prophecy. 

5.  Peculation. 

6.  Hypocrisy. 

7.  Theft. 

8.  False  counsel. 

9.  Schism  and  Imposture. 

10.  Treachery  to  those  who  repose  entire  trust  in  the  traitor. 


324 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lix.  There  is,  perhaps,  nothing  more  notable  in  this  most 
interesting  system  than  the  profound  truth  couched  under  the 
attachment  of  so  terrible  a penalty  to  sadness  or  sorrow.  It 
is  true  that  Idleness  does  not  elsewhere  appear  in  the  scheme, 
and  is  evidently  intended  to  be  included  in  the  guilt  of  sadness 
by  the  word  “ accidioso  ; ” but  the  main  meaning  of  the  poet 
is  to  mark  the  duty  of  rejoicing  in  God,  according  both  to  St. 
Paul’s  command,  and  Isaiah’s  promise,  “Thou  meetest  him 
that  rejoiceth  and  worketh  righteousness.”*  I do  not  know 
words  that  might  with  more  benefit  be  borne  with  us.  and  set 
in  our  hearts  momentarily  against  the  minor  regrets  and  re- 
belliousnesses of  life,  than  these  simple  ones  : 

“Tristi  fummo 
Nel  aer  dolce,  die  del  sol  s’  allegra, 

Or  ci  attristiam,  nella  belletta  negra.” 

“We  once  were  sad, 

In  the  sweet  air,  made  gladsome  by  the  sun, 

Now  in  these  murky  settlings  are  we  sad.”  f Cary. 

The  virtue  usually  opposed  to  this  vice  of  sullenness  is 
Alacritas,  uniting  the  sense  of  activity  and  cheerfulness. 
Spenser  has  cheerfulness  simply,  in  his  description,  never 
enough  to  be  loved  or  praised,  of  the  virtues  of  Womanhood : 
first  feminineness  or  womanhood  in  specialty  ; then, — 

u Next  to  her  sate  goodly  Shamefastnesse, 

Ne  ever  durst  her  eyes  from  ground  upreare, 

Ne  ever  once  did  looke  up  from  her  desse,  t 
As  if  some  blame  of  evill  she  did  feare 
That  in  her  cheekes  made  roses  oft  appeare  : 

And  her  against  sweet  Cherefulnesse  was  placed, 

Whose  eyes,  like  twinkling  stars  in  evening  cleare, 

Were  deckt  with  smyles  that  all  sad  humours  chaced. 

* Isa.  lxiv.  5. 

t I can  hardly  think  it  neccessary  to  point  out  to  the  reader  the  asso- 
ciation between  sacred  cheerfulness  and  solemn  thought,  or  to  explain 
any  appearance  of  contradiction  between  passages  in  which  (as  above  in 
Chap.  V.)  I have  had  to  oppose  sacred  pensiveness  to  unholy  mirth,  and 
those  in  which  I have  to  oppose  sacred  cheerfulness  to  unholy  sorrow. 

I “ Desse,”  seat. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


325 


4<  And  next  to  her  sate  sober  Modestie, 

Holding  her  hand  upon  her  gentle  hart ; 

And  her  against,  sate  comety  Curtesie, 

That  unto  every  person  knew  her  part ; 

And  her  before  was  seated  overthwart 
Soft  Silence,  and  submisse  Obedience, 

Both  linckt  together  never  to  dispart.” 

§ lx.  Another  notable  point  in  Dante’s  system  is  the  inten- 
sity of  uttermost  punishment  given  to  treason,  the  peculiar 
sin  of  Italy,  and  that  to  which,  at  this  day,  she  attributes  her 
own  misery  with  her  own  lips.  An  Italian,  questioned  as  to 
the  causes  of  the  failure  of  the  campaign  of  1848,  always 
makes  one  answer,  “ We  were  betrayed  ; ” and  the  most  mel- 
ancholy feature  of  the  present  state  of  Italy  is  principally  this, 
that  she  does  not  see  that,  of  all  causes  to  which  failure  might 
be  attributed,  this  is  at  once  the  most  disgraceful,  and  the 
most  hopeless.  In  fact,  Dante  seems  to  me  to  have  written 
almost  prophetically,  for  the  instruction  of  modern  Italy,  and 
chiefly  so  in  the  sixth  canto  of  the  “Purgatorio.” 

§ lxi.  Hitherto  we  have  been  considering  the  system  of  the 
“ Inferno  ” only.  That  of  the  “ Purgatorio  ” is  much  simpler, 
it  being  divided  into  seven  districts,  in  which  the  souls  are 
severally  purified  from  the  sins  of  Pride,  Envy,  Wrath,  Indif- 
ference, Avarice,  Gluttony,  and  Lust  ; the  poet  thus  implying 
in  opposition,  and  describing  in  various  instances,  the  seven 
virtues  of  Humility,  Kindness,*  Patience,  Zeal,  Poverty,  Ab- 
stinence, and  Chastity,  as  adjuncts  of  the  Christian  character, 
in  which  it  may  occasionally  fail,  while  the  essential  group  of 
the  three  theological  and  four  cardinal  virtues  are  represented 
as  in  direct  attendance  on  the  chariot  of  the  Deity  ; and  all 
the  sins  of  Christians  are  in  the  seventeenth  canto  traced  to 
the  deficiency  or  aberration  of  Affection. 

* Usually  called  Charity : but  this  virtue  in  its  full  sense  is  one  of  the 
attendant  spirits  by  the  Throne  ; the  Kindness  here  meant  is  Charity 
with  a special  object ; or  Friendship  and  Kindness,  as  opposed  to  Envy, 
which  has  always,  in  like  manner,  a special  object.  Hence  the  love  of 
Orestes  and  Pylades  is  given  as  an  instance  of  the  virtue  of  Friendship  ; 
and  the  Virgin’s,  “They  have  no  wine,’’  at  Cana,  of  general  kindness 
and  sympathy  with  others’  pleasure. 


326 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ LXII.  The  system  of  Spenser  is  unfinished,  and  exceedingly 
complicated,  the  same  vices  and  virtues  occurring  under  differ- 
ent forms  in  different  places,  in  order  to  show  their  different 
relations  to  each  other.  I shall  not  therefore  give  any  gem 
eral  sketch  of  it,  but  only  refer  to  the  particular  personifica- 
tion of  each  virtue  in  order  to  compare  it  with  that  of  the 
Ducal  Palace.*  The  peculiar  superiority  of  his  system  is  in 
its  exquisite  setting  forth  of  Chastity  under  the  figure  of 
Britomart ; not  monkish  chastity,  but  that  of  the  purest  Love. 
In  completeness  of  personification  no  one  can  approach  him ; 
not  even  in  Dante  do  I remember  anything  quite  so  great  as 
the  description  of  the  Captain  of  the  Lusts  of  the  Flesh : 

“As  pale  and  wan  as  ashes  was  his  looke  ; 

His  body  lean  and  meagre  as  a rake  ; 

And  skin  all  withered  like  a dryed  rooke ; 

Thereto  as  cold  and  drery  as  a snake ; 

That  seemed  to  tremble  evermore,  and  quake : 

All  in  a canvas  thin  he  was  bedight , 

And  girded,  with  a belt  of  twisted  brake : 

Upon  his  head  he  wore  an  helmet  light, 

Made  of  a dead  man’s  skull.” 

He  rides  upon  a tiger,  and  in  his  hand  is  a bow,  bent ; 

“And  many  arrows  under  his  right  side, 

Headed  with  flint,  and  f ethers  bloody  dide.” 

The  horror  and  the  truth  of  this  are  beyond  everything  that 
I know,  out  of  the  pages  of  Inspiration.  Note  the  heading  of 
the  arrows  with  flint,  because  sharper  and  more  subtle  in  the 
edge  than  steel,  and  because  steel  might  consume  awTay  Avith 
rust,  but  flint  not ; and  consider  in  the  whole  description  how 
the  wasting  awTay  of  body  and  soul  together,  and  the  coldness 

* The  “Faerie  Queen,’' like  Dante’s  u Paradise,’’  is  only  half  esti- 
mated, because  few  persons  take  the  pains  to  think  out  its  meaning.  I 
have  put  a brief  analysis  of  the  first  book  in  Appendix  2,  Vol.  III.  ; 
which  may  perhaps  induce  the  reader  to  follow  out  the  subject  for  him- 
self No  time  devoted  to  profane  literature  will  be  better  rewarded 
than  that  spent  earnestly  on  Spenser. 


THE  ETJCAL  PALACE. 


327 


of  the  heart,  which  unholy  fire  has  consumed  into  ashes,  and 
the  loss  of  all  power,  and  the  kindling  of  all  terrible  impa- 
tience, and  the  implanting  of  thorny  and  inextricable  griefs, 
are  set  forth  by  the  various  images,  the  belt  of  brake,  the 
tiger  steed,  and  the  light  helmet,  girding  the  head  with  death. 

§ lxiii.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting  series  of  the  Virtues 
expressed  in  Italian  art  are  those  above  mentioned  of  Simon 
Memmi  in  the  Spanish  chapel  at  Florence,  of  Ambrogio  di 
Lorenzo  in  the  Palazzo  Publico  of  Pisa,  of  Orcagna  in  Or  San 
Michele  at  Florence,  of  Giotto  at  Padua  and  Assisi,  in  mosaic 
on  the  central  cupoia  of  St.  Mark’s,  and  in  sculpture  on  the 
pillars  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  The  first  two  series  are  carefully 
described  by  Lord  Lindsay  ; both  are  too  complicated  for 
comparison  with  the  more  simple  series  of  the  Ducal  Palace  ; 
the  other  four  of  course  agree  in  giving  first  the  cardinal  and 
evangelical  virtues  ; their  variations  in  the  statement  of  the 
rest  will  be  best  understood  by  putting  them  in  a parallel  ar- 
rangement. 


St.  Mark’s. 

Orcagna. 

Giotto. 

Ducal  Palace. 

Constancy. 

Perseverance. 

Constancy. 

Modesty. 

Modesty. 

Chastity. 

Virginity. 

Chastity. 

Chastity. 

Patience. 

Patience. 

Patience. 

Mercy. 

Abstinence. 

Abstinence  ? 

Piety.  * 
Benignity. 

Devotion. 

Humility. 

Humility. 

Humility. 

Humility. 

Obedience. 

Obedience. 

Obedience. 

Docility. 

Caution. 

Poverty. 

Honesty. 

Liberality. 

Alacrity. 

* Inscribed,  I believe,  Pietas,  meaning  general  reverence  and  godly 
fear. 


328 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lxiv.  It  is  curious,  that  in  none  of  these  lists  do  we  find 
either  Honesty  or  Industry  ranked  as  a virtue,  except  in  the 
Venetian  one,  where  the  latter  is  implied  in  Alacritas,  and 
opposed  not  only  by  “ Accidia  ” or  sloth,  but  by  a whole  series 
of  eight  sculptures  on  another  capital,  illustrative,  as  I believe, 
of  the  temptations  to  idleness  ; while  various  other  capitals, 
as  we  shall  see  presently,  are  devoted  to  the  representation  of 
the  active  trades.  Industry,  in  Northern  art  and  Northern 
morality,  assumes  a very  principal  place.  I have  seen  in 
French  manuscripts  the  virtues  reduced  to  these  seven,  Char- 
ity, Chastity,  Patience,  Abstinence,  Humility,  Liberality, 
and  Industry  : and  I doubt  whether,  if  we  were  but  to  add 
Honesty  (or  Truth),  a wiser  or  shorter  list  could  be  made 
out. 

§ lxv.  We  will  now  take  the  pillars  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
in  their  order.  It  has  already  been  mentioned  (Vol.  I.  Chap. 
I.  § xlvi.)  that  there  are,  in  all,  thirty-six  great  pillars  sup- 
porting the  lower  story  ; and  that  these  are  to  be  counted  from 
right  to  left,  because  then  the  more  ancient  of  them  come  first : 
and  that,  thus  arranged,  the  first,  which  is  not  a shaft,  but  a 
pilaster,  will  be  the  support  of  the  Vine  angle  ; the  eighteenth 
will  be  the  great  shaft  of  the  Fig-tree  angle  ; and  the  thirty- 
sixth,  that  of  the  Judgment  angle. 

§ lxvi.  All  their  capitals,  except  that  of  the  first,  are  octag- 
onal, and  are  decorated  by  sixteen  leaves,  differently  enriched 
in  every  capital,  but  arranged  in  the  same  way  ; eight  of  them 
rising  to  the  angles,  and  there  forming  volutes  ; the  eight 
others  set  between  them,  on  the  sides,  rising  half-way  up  the 
bell  of  the  capital  ; there  nodding  forward,  and  showing 
above  them,  rising  out  of  their  luxuriance,  the  groups  or 
single  figures  which  we  have  to  examine.*  In  some  instances, 
the  intermediate  or  lower  leaves  are  reduced  to  eight  sprays 
of  foliage  ; and  the  capital  is  left  dependent  for  its  effect  on 
the  bold  position  of  the  figures.  In  referring  to  the  figures 

* I have  given  one  of  these  capitals  carefully  already  in  my  folio 
work,  and  hope  to  give  most  of  the  others  in  due  time.  It  was  of  no  use 
to  draw  them  here,  as  the  scale  would  have  been  too  small  to  allow  me 
to  show  the  expression  of  the  figures. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


329 


on  the  octagonal  capitals,  I shall  call  the  outer  side,  fronting 
either  the  Sea  or  the  Piazzetta,  the  first  side  ; and  so  count 
round  from  left  to  right ; the  fourth  side  being  thus,  of  course, 
the  innermost.  As,  however,  the  first  five  arches  were  walled 
up  after  the  great  fire,  only  three  sides  of  their  capitals  are  left 
visible,  which  we  may  describe  as  the  front  and  the  eastern 
and  western  sides  of  each. 

§ lxvii.  First  Capital:  i.e.  of  the  pilaster  at  the  Vine 
angle. 

In  front,  towards  the  Sea.  A child  holding  a bird  before 
him,  with  its  wings  expanded,  covering  his  breast. 

On  its  eastern  side.  Children’s  heads  among  leaves. 

On  its  western  side.  A child  carrying  in  one  hand  a comb  ; 
in  the  other,  a pair  of  scissors. 

It  appears  curious,  that  this,  the  principal  pilaster  of  the 
fayade,  should  have  been  decorated  only  by  these  graceful 
grotesques,  for  I can  hardly  suppose  them  anything  more. 
There  may  be  meaning  in  them,  but  I will  not  venture  to  con- 
jecture any,  except  the  very  plain  and  practical  meaning  con- 
veyed by  the  last  figure  to  all  Venetian  children,  which  it 
would  be  well  if  they  would  act  upon.  For  the  rest,  I have 
seen  the  comb  introduced  in  grotesque  work  as  early  as  the 
thirteenth  century,  but  generally  for  the  purpose  of  ridiculing 
too  great  care  in  dressing  the  hair,  which  assuredly  is  not  its 
purpose  here.  Tbe  children’s  heads  are  very  sweet  and  full 
of  life,  but  the  eyes  sharp  and  small. 

§ lxviii.  Second  Capital.  Only  three  sides  of  the  origina 
work  are  left  unburied  by  the  mass  of  added  wall.  Each  side 
has  a bird,  one  web-footed,  with  a fish,  one  clawed,  with  a ser- 
pent, which  opens  its  jaws,  and  darts  its  tongue  at  the  bird’s 
breast ; the  third  pluming  itself,  with  a feather  between  the 
mandibles  of  its  bill.  It  is  by  far  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
three  capitals  decorated  with  birds. 

Third  Capital.  Also  has  three  sides  only  left.  They  have 
three  heads,  large,  and  very  ill  cut  ; one  female,  and  crowned. 

Fourth  Capital.  Has  three  children.  The  eastern  one  is 
defaced  : the  one  in  front  holds  a small  bird,  whose  plumage 
is  beautifully  indicated,  in  its  right  hand  ; and  with  its  left 


330 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


holds  up  half  a walnut,  showing  the  nut  inside  : the  third 
holds  a fresh  fig,  cut  through,  showing  the  seeds. 

The  hair  of  all  the  three  children  is  differently  worked  : the 
first  has  luxuriant  flowing  hair,  and  a double  chin  ; the 
second,  light  flowing  hair  falling  in  pointed  locks  on  the 
forehead ; the  third,  crisp  curling  hair,  deep  cut  with  drill 
holes. 

This  capital  has  been  copied  on  the  Renaissance  side  of  the 
palace,  only  with  such  changes  in  the  ideal  of  the  children  as 
the  workman  thought  expedient  and  natural.  It  is  highly 
interesting  to  compare  the  child  of  the  fourteenth  with  the 
child  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  early  heads  are  full  of 
youthful  life,  playful,  humane,  affectionate,  beaming  with  sen- 
sation and  vivacity,  but  with  much  manliness  and  firmness, 
also,  not  a little  cunning,  and  some  cruelty  perhaps,  beneath 
all ; the  features  small  and  hard,  and  the  eyes  keen.  There  is 
the  making  of  rough  and  great  men  in  them.  But  the  chil- 
dren of  the  fifteenth  century  are  dull  smooth-faced  dunces, 
without  a single  meaning  line  in  the  fatness  of  their  stolid 
cheeks  ; and,  although,  in  the  vulgar  sense,  as  handsome  as 
the  other  children  are  ugly,  capable  of  becoming  nothing  but 
perfumed  coxcombs. 

Fifth  Capital.  Still  three  sides  only  left,  bearing  three 
half-length  statues  of  kings  ; this  is  the  first  capital  which 
bears  any  inscription.  In  front,  a king  with  a sword  in  his 
right  hand  points  to  a handkerchief  embroidered  and  fringed, 
with  a head  on  it,  carved  on  the  cavetto  of  the  abacus.  His 
jiame  is  written  above,  “ titus  vespasian  imperator  ” (contracted 

On  the  eastern  side,  “ trajanus  imperator.  ” Crowned,  a 
sword  in  right  hand,  and  sceptre  in  left. 

On  western,  “ (oct)avianus  Augustus  imperator.”  The 
“ oct  ” is  broken  away.  He  bears  a globe  in  his  right  hand, 
with  “ mundus  pacis  ” upon  it ; a sceptre  in  his  left,  which  I 
think  has  terminated  in  a human  figure.  He  has  a flowing 
beard,  and  a singularly  high  crown  ; the  face  is  much  injured, 
but  has  once  been  very  noble  in  expression. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


331 


Sixth  Capital,  Has  large  male  and  female  heads,  very 
coarsely  cut,  hard,  and  bad. 

§ lxix.  Seventh  Capital.  This  is  the  first  of  the  series 
which  is  complete  ; the  first  open  arch  of  the  lower  arcade 
being  between  it  and  the  sixth.  It  begins  the  representation 
of  the  Virtues. 

First  side.  Largitas,  or  Liberality:  always  distinguished 
from  the  higher  Charity.  A male  figure,  with  his  lap  full  of 
money,  which  he  pours  out  of  his  hand.  The  coins  are  plain, 
circular,  and  smooth  ; there  is  no  attempt  to  mark  device 
upon  them.  The  inscription  above  is,  “ largitas  me  onorat.” 

In  the  copy  of  this  design  on  the  twenty-fifth  capital,  in- 
stead of  showering  out  the  gold  from  his  open  hand,  the  fig- 
ure holds  it  in  a plate  or  salver,  introduced  for  the  sake  of 
disguising  the  direct  imitation.  The  changes  thus  made  in 
the  Renaissance  pillars  are  always  injuries. 

This  virtue  is  the  proper  opponent  of  Avarice  ; though  it 
does  not  occur  in  the  systems  of  Orcagna  or  Giotto,  being  in- 
cluded in  Charity.  It  was  a leading  virtue  with  Aristotle  and 
the  other  ancients. 

§ lxx.  Second  side . Constancy  ; not  very  characteristic. 
An  armed  man  with  a sword  in  his  hand,  inscribed,  “con- 
stantly SUM,  NIL  TIMENS.” 

This  virtue  is  one  of  the  forms  of  fortitude,  and  Giotto 
therefore  sets  as  the  vice  opponent  to  Fortitude,  “ Inconstan- 
tia,”  represented  as  a woman  in  loose  drapery,  falling  from  a 
rolling  globe.  The  vision  seen  in  the  interpreter’s  house  in 
the  Pilgrim’s  Progress,  of  the  man  with  a very  bold  counte- 
nance, who  says  to  him  who  has  the  writer’s  ink-horn  by  his 
side,  “Set  down  my  name,”  is  the  best  personification  of  the 
Venetian  “ Constantia  ” of  which  lam  aware  in  literature.  It 
would  be  well  for  us  all  to  consider  whether  we  have  yet 
given  the  order  to  the  man  with  the  ink-horn,  “ Set  down  my 
name.” 

§ lxxi.  Third  side.  Discord  ; holding  up  her  finger,  but 
needing  the  inscription  above  to  assure  us  of  her  meaning? 
(C  discordia  sum,  discordans.”  In  the  Renaissance  copy  she  is 
a meek  and  nun-like  person  with  a veil. 


332 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


She  is  the  Ate  of  Spenser  ; “ mother  of  debate,”  thus  de 
scribed  in  the  fourth  book  : 

“ Her  face  most  fowle  and  filthy  was  to  see, 

With  squinted  eyes  oontrarie  wayes  intended  ; 

And  loathly  mouth,  unmeete  a mouth  to  bee, 

That  nought  but  gall  and  venim  comprehended, 

And  wicked  wordes  that  God  and  man  offended : 

Her  lying  tongue  was  in  two  parts  divided, 

And  both  the  parts  did  speake,  and  both  contended  ; 

And  as  her  tongue,  so  was  her  hart  discided, 

That  never  tlioght  one  thing,  but  doubly  stil  was  guided.” 

Note  the  fine  old  meaning  of  “ discided,”  cut  in  two  ; it  is 
a great  pity  we  have  lost  this  powerful  expression.  We 
might  keep  “ determined  ” for  the  other  sense  of  the  word. 

§ lxxii.  Fourth  side . Patience.  A female  figure,  very  ex- 
pressive and  lovely,  in  a hood,  with  her  right  hand  on  her 
breast,  the  left  extended,  inscribed  “patientia  manet  mecum.” 
She  is  one  of  the  principal  virtues  in  all  the  Christian  sys- 
tems : a masculine  virtue  in  Spenser,  and  beautifully  placed 
as  the  Physician  in  the  House  of  Holinesse.  The  opponent 
vice,  Impatience,  is  one  of  the  hags  who  attend  the  Captain 
of  the  Lusts  of  the  Flesh  ; the  other  being  Impotence.  In 
like  manner,  in  the  “ Pilgrim’s  Progress,”  the  opposite  of 
Patience  is  Passion ; but  Spenser’s  thought  is  farther  carried. 
His  two  hags,  Impatience  and  Impotence,  as  attendant  upon 
the  evil  spirit  of  Passion,  embrace  all  the  phenomena  of  hu- 
man conduct,  down  even  to  the  smallest  matters,  according 
to  the  adage,  “ More  haste,  worse  speed.” 

§ lxxiii.  Fifth  side.  Despair.  A female  figure  thrusting  a 
dagger  into  her  throat,  and  tearing  her  long  hair,  which  flows 
down  among  the  leaves  of  the  capital  below  her  knees.  One 
of  the  finest  figures  of  the  series  ; inscribed  4 ‘ desperacio  mos 
(mortis  ?)  crudelis.”  In  the  Renaissance  copy  she  is  totally 
devoid  of  expression,  and  appears,  instead  of  tearing  her 
hair,  to  be  dividing  it  into  long  curls  on  each  side. 

This  vice  is  the  proper  opposite  of  Hope.  By  Giotto  she 
is  represented  as  a woman  hanging  herself,  a fiend  coming  for 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


333 


her  soul.  Spenser’s  vision  of  Despair  is  well  known,  it  being 
indeed  currently  reported  that  this  part  of  the  Faerie  Queen 
was  the  first  which  drew  to  it  the  attention  of  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney. 

§ lxxiv.  Sixth  side . Obedience : with  her  arms  folded ; 
meek,  but  rude  and  commonplace,  looking  at  a little  dog 
standing  on  its  hind  legs  and  begging,  with  a collar  round  its 
neck.  Inscribed  “ obedienti  * * ; ” the  rest  of  the  sentence 

is  much  defaced,  but  looks  like  *j\#0 F^O  £j JiipijO  * I sup- 
pose the  note  of  contraction  above  the  final  A has  disappeared 
and  that  the  inscription  was  “ Obedientiam  domino  exhibeo.” 

This  virtue  is,  of  course,  a principal  one  in  the  monkish 
systems  ; represented  by  Giotto  at  Assisi  as  “an  angel  robed 
in  black,  placing  the  finger  of  his  left  hand  on  his  mouth,  and 
passing  the  yoke  over  the  head  of  a Franciscan  monk  kneeling 
at  his  feet.”  * 

Obedience  holds  a less  principal  place  in  Spenser.  We 
have  seen  her  above  associated  with  the  other  peculiar  virtues 
of  womanhood. 

§ lxxv.  Seventh  side . Infidelity.  A man  in  a turban,  with 
a small  image  in  his  hand,  or  the  image  of  a child.  Of  the 
inscription  nothing  but  “ infidelitate  * * * ” and  some  frag- 
mentary letters,  “ili,  cero,”  remain. 

By  Giotto  Infidelity  is  most  nobly  symbolized  as  a woman 
helmeted,  the  helmet  having  a broad  rim  which  keeps  the 
light  from  her  eyes.  She  is  covered  with  heavy  drapery, 
stands  infirmly  as  if  about  to  fall,  is  hound  by  a cord  round 
her  neck  to  an  image  which  she  carries  in  her  hand,  and  has 
Sames  bursting  forth  at  her  feet. 

In  Spenser,  Infidelity  is  the  Saracen  knight  Sans  Foy, — 

“ Full  large  of  limbe  and  every  joint 
He  was,  and  cared  not  for  God  or  man  a point.” 

For  the  part  which  he  sustains  in  the  contest  with  Godly  Fear, 
or  the  Red-cross  knight,  see  Appendix  2,  Yol.  IIL 

* Lord  Lindsay,  vol.  ii.  p.  226. 


834 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lxxvi.  Eighth  side . Modesty  ; bearing  a pitcher.  (In  the 
Renaissance  copy,  a vase  like  a coffee-pot.)  Inscribed  “modestia 


I do  not  find  this  virtue  in  any  of  the  Italian  series,  except 
that  of  Venice.  In  Spenser  she  is  of  course  one  of  those 
attendant  on  Womanhood,  but  occurs  as  one  of  the  tenants 
of  the  Heart  of  Man,  thus  portrayed  in  the  second  book  : 

“ Straunge  was  her  tyre,  and  all  her  garment  blew, 

Close  rownd  about  her  tuckt  with  many  a plight : 

Upon  her  fist  the  bird  which  shonneth  vew. 


And  ever  and  anone  with  rosy  red 

The  bashfnll  blood  her  snowy  cheekes  did  dye, 

That  her  became,  as  polislit  yvory 

Which  cunning  craftesman  hand  hath  overlayd 

With  fay  re  vermilion  or  pure  castory.” 

§ lxxvii.  Eighth  Capital.  It  has  no  inscriptions,  and  its 
subjects  are  not,  by  themselves,  intelligible  ; but  they  appear 
to  be  typical  of  the  degradation  of  human  instincts. 

First  side.  A caricature  of  Arion  on  his  dolphin  ; he  wears 
a cap  ending  in  a long  proboscis-like  horn,  and  plays  a violin 
with  a curious  twitch  of  the  bow  and  wag  of  the  head,  very 
graphically  expressed,  but  still  without  anything  approaching 
to  the  power  of  Northern  grotesque.  His  dolphin  has  a goodly 
row  of  teeth,  and  the  waves  beat  over  his  back. 

Second  side.  A human  figure,  with  curly  hair  and  the  legs 
of  a bear ; the  paws  laid,  with  great  sculptural  skill,  upon  the 
foliage.  It  plays  a violin,  shaped  like  a guitar,  with  a bent 
double -stringed  bow. 

Third  side . A figure  with  a serpent’s  tail  and  a monstrous 
head,  founded  on  a Negro  type,  hollow-cheeked,  large-lipped, 
and  wearing  a cap  made  of  a serpent  s skin,  holding  a fir-cone 
in  its  hand. 

Fourth  side.  A monstrous  figure,  terminating  below  in  a 
tortoise.  It  is  devouring  a gourd,  which  it  grasps  greedily 
with  both  hands  ; it  wears  a cap  ending  in  a hoofed  leg. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


335 


Fifth  side . A centaur  wearing  a crested  helmet,  and  hold* 
ing  a curved  sword. 

Sixth  side.  A knight,  riding  a headless  horse,  and  wearing 
chain  armor,  with  a triangular  shield  flung  behind  his  back, 
and  a two-edged  sword. 

Seventh  side.  A figure  like  that  on  the  fifth,  wearing  a 
round  helmet,  and  with  the  legs  and  tail  of  a horse.  He  bears 
a long  mace  with  a top  like  a fir-cone. 

Eighth  side.  A figure  with  curly  hair,  and  an  acorn  in  its 
hand,  ending  below  in  a fish. 

§ lxxviii.  Ninth  Capital.  First  side . Faith.  She  has  her 
left  hand  on  her  breast,  and  the  cross  on  her  right.  Inscribed 
“ fides  optima  in  deo.”  The  Faith  of  Giotto  holds  the  cross 
in  her  right  hand  ; in  her  left,  a scroll  with  the  Apostles’ 
Creed.  She  treads  upon  cabalistic  books,  and  has  a key  sus- 
pended to  her  waist.  Spenser’s  Faith  (Fidelia)  is  still  more 
spiritual  and  noble : 

“ She  was  araied  all  in  lilly  white, 

And  in  her  right  hand  bore  a cup  of  gold, 

With  wine  and  water  fild  up  to  the  hight, 

In  which  a serpent  did  himselfe  enfold, 

That  horrour  made  to  all  that  did  behold  ; 

But  she  no  wliitt  did  chaunge  her  constant  mood  ; 

And  in  her  other  hand  she  fast  did  hold 
A booke,  that  was  both  signd  and  seald  with  blood  ; 

Wherein  darke  things  were  writt,  hard  to  be  understood.” 

§ lxxix.  Second  side.  Fortitude.  A long-bearded  man 
[Samson  ?]  tearing  open  a lion’s  jaw.  The  inscription  is  il- 
legible, and  the  somewhat  vulgar  personification  appears  to 
belong  rather  to  Courage  than  Fortitude.  On  the  Kenais- 
sance  copy  it  is  inscribed  “fortitudo  sum  virilis.”  The 
Latin  word  has,  perhaps,  been  received  by  the  sculptor  as 
merely  signifying  “ Strength,”  the  rest  of  the  perfect  idea  ol 
this  virtue  having  been  given  in  “Constantia”  previously. 
But  both  these  Venetian  symbols  together  do  not  at  all  ap- 
proach the  idea  of  Fortitude  as  given  generally  by  Giotto  and 
the  Pisan  sculptors  ; clothed  with  a lion’s  skin,  knotted  about 
her  neck,  and  falling  to  her  feet  in  deep  folds  ; drawing  back 


336 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


her  right  hand,  with  the  sword  pointed  towards  her  enemy , 
and  slightly  retired  behind  her  immovable  shield,  which,  with 
Giotto,  is  square,  and  rested  on  the  ground  like  a tower,  cov- 
ering her  up  to  above  her  shoulders  ; bearing  on  it  a lion,  and. 
with  broken  heads  of  javelins  deeply  infixed. 

Among  the  Greeks,  this  is,  of  course,  one  of  the  principal 
virtues  ; apt,  however,  in  their  ordinary  conception  of  it  to 
degenerate  into  mere  manliness  or  courage. 

§ lxxx.  Third  side.  Temperance  ; bearing  a pitcher  of 
water  and  a cup.  Inscription,  illegible  here,  and  on  the 
Renaissance  copy  nearly  so,  “ tempeeantia  sum  ” (inom’  ls)  ? 
only  left.  In  this  somewhat  vulgar  and  most  frequent  con- 
ception of  this  virtue  (afterwards  continually  repeated,  as  by 
Sir  Joshua  in  his  window  at  New  College)  temperance  is 
confused  with  mere  abstinence,  the  opposite  of  Gula,  or  glut- 
tony ; whereas  the  Greek  Temperance,  a truly  cardinal  virtue, 
is  the  moderator  of  all  the  passions,  and  so  represented  by 
Giotto,  who  has  placed  a bridle  upon  her  lips,  and  a sword 
in  her  hand,  the  hilt  of  which  she  is  binding  to  the  scabbard. 
In  his  system,  she  is  opposed  among  the  vices,  not  by  Gula 
or  Gluttony,  but  by  Ira,  Anger.  So  also  the  Temperance  of 
Spenser,  or  Sir  Guyon,  but  with  mingling  of  much  sternness : 

“ A goodly  knight,  all  armed  in  liarnesse  meete, 

That  from  his  head  no  place  appeared  to  his  feete, 

His  carriage  was  full  comely  and  upright ; 

His  countenance  demure  and  temperate  ; 

But  yett  so  sterne  and  terrible  in  sight, 

That  cheard  his  friendes,  and  did  his  foes  amate.” 

The  Temperance  of  the  Greeks,  aw^poorvvr],  involves  the 
idea  of  Prudence,  and  is  a most  noble  virtue,  yet  properly 
marked  by  Plato  as  inferior  to  sacred  enthusiasm,  though  nec- 
essary for  its  government.  He  opposes  it,  under  the  name 
“ Mortal  Temperance  ” or  “the  Temperance  wdiich  is  of  men,” 
to  divine  madness,  /xavia,  or  inspiration  ; but  he  most  justly 
and  nobly  expresses  the  general  idea  of  it  under  the  term 
v ft  pis,  which,  in  the  “Phaedrus,”  is  divided  into  various  intem- 
perances with  respect  to  various  objects,  and  set  forth  under 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


337 


the  image  of  a black,  vicious,  diseased  and  furious  horse,  yoked 
by  the  side  of  Prudence  or  Wisdom  (set  forth  under  the 
figure  of  a white  horse  with  a crested  and  noble  head,  like 
that  which  we  have  among  the  Elgin  Marbles)  to  the  chariot 
of  the  Soul.  The  system  of  Aristotle,  as  above  stated,  is 
throughout  a mere  complicated  blunder,  supported  by  so- 
phistry, the  laboriously  developed  mistake  of  Temperance  for 
the  essence  of  the  virtues  which  it  guides.  Temperance  in  the 
mediaeval  systems  is  generally  opposed  by  Anger,  or  by  Folly, 
or  Gluttony  : but  her  proper  opposite  is  Spenser’s  Acrasia,  the 
principal  enemy  of  Sir  Guy  on,  at  whose  gates  we  find  the  sub- 
ordinate vice  “ Excesse,”  as  the  introduction  to  Intemperance  ; 
a graceful  and  feminine  image,  necessary  to  illustrate  the  more 
dangerous  forms  of  subtle  intemperance,  as  opposed  to  the 
brutal  “ Gluttony  ” in  the  first  book.  She  presses  grapes  into 
a cup,  because  of  the  words  of  St.  Paul,  “ Be  not  drunk  with 
wine,  wherein  is  excess ; ” but  always  delicately, 

“ Into  her  cup  she  scruzd  with  daintie  breach 
Of  her  fine  fingers,  without  fowle  einpeach, 

That  so  faire  winepresse  made  the  wine  more  sweet.” 

The  reader  will,  I trust,  pardon  these  frequent  extracts 
from  Spenser,  for  it  is  nearly  as  necessary  to  point  out  the 
profound  divinity  and  philosophy  of  our  great  English  poet, 
as  the  beauty  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

§ lxxxi.  Fourth  side.  Humility  ; with  a veil  upon  her  head, 
carrying  a lamp  in  her  lap.  Inscribed  in  the  copy,  “ humili- 

TAS  HABITAT  IN  ME.” 

This  virtue  is  of  course  a peculiarly  Christian  one,  hardly 
recognized  in  the  Pagan  systems,  though  carefully  impressed 
upon  the  Greeks  in  early  life  in  a manner  which  at  this  day 
it  would  be  well  if  we  were  to  imitate,  and,  together  with  an 
almost  feminine  modesty,  giving  an  exquisite  grace  to  the 
conduct  and  bearing  of  the  well-educated  Greek  youth.  It  is, 
of  course,  one  of  the  leading  virtues  in  all  the  monkish  sys- 
tems, but  I have  not  any  notes  of  the  manner  of  its  represen- 
tation. 

§ lxxxii.  Fifth  side.  Charity.  A woman  with  her  lap  full  of 
Vol.  II.— 22 


338 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


loaves  (?),  giving  one  to  a child,  who  stretches  his  arm  out 
for  it  across  a broad  gap  in  the  leafage  of  the  capital. 

Again  very  far  inferior  to  the  Giottesque  rendering  of  this 
virtue.  In  the  Arena  Chapel  she  is  distinguished  from  all  the 
other  virtues  by  having  a circular  glory  round  her  head,  and 
a cross  of  fire  ; she  is  crowned  with  flowers,  presents  with  her 
right  hand  a vase  of  corn  and  fruit,  and  with  her  left  receives 
treasure  from  Christ,  who  appears  above  her,  to  provide  her 
with  the  means  of  continual  offices  of  beneficence,  while  she 
tramples  under  foot  the  treasures  of  the  earth. 

The  peculiar  beauty  of  most  of  the  Italian  conceptions  of 
Charity,  is  in  the  subjection  of  mere  munificence  to  the  glow- 
ing of  her  love,  always  represented  by  flames  ; here  in  the 
form  of  a cross  round  her  head  ; in  Orcagna’s  shrine  at  Flor- 
ence, issuing  from  a censer  in  her  hand  ; and,  with  Dante,  in- 
flaming her  whole  form,  so  that,  in  a furnace  of  clear  fire,  she 
could  not  have  been  discerned. 

Spenser  represents  her  as  a mother  surrounded  by  happy 
children,  an  idea  afterwards  grievously  hackneyed  and  vulgar- 
ized by  English  painters  and  sculptors. 

§ lxxxiii.  Sixth  side.  Justice.  Crowned,  and  with  sword. 
Inscribed  in  the  copy,  “rex  sum  justicie.” 

This  idea  was  afterwards  much  amplified  and  adorned  in 
the  only  good  capital  of  the  Renaissance  series,  under  the 
Judgment  angle.  Giotto  has  also  given  his  whole  strength  to 
the  painting  of  this  virtue,  representing  her  as  enthroned 
under  a noble  Gothic  canopy,  holding  scales,  not  by  the  beam, 
but  one  in  each  hand  ; a beautiful  idea,  showing  that  the 
equality  of  the  scales  of  Justice  is  not  owing  to  natural  laws 
but  to  her  own  immediate  weighing  the  opposed  causes  in 
her  own  hands.  In  one  scale  is  an  executioner  beheading  a 
criminal ; in  the  other  an  angel  crowning  a man  who  seems 
(in  Selvatico’s  plate)  to  have  been  working  at  a desk  or  table. 

Beneath  her  feet  is  a small  predella,  representing  various 
persons  riding  securely  in  the  woods,  and  others  dancing  to 
the  sound  of  music. 

Spenser’s  Justice,  Sir  Artegall,  is  the  hero  of  an  entire 
book,  and  the  betrothed  knight  of  Britomart,  or  chastity. 


TEE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


339 


§ lxxxiv.  Seventh  side.  Prudence.  A man  with  a book  and 
a pair  of  compasses,  wearing  the  noble  cap,  hanging  down 
towards  the  shoulder,  and  bound  in  a fillet  round  the  brow, 
which  occurs  so  frequently  during  the  fourteenth  century  in 
Italy  in  the  portraits  of  men  occupied  in  any  civil  capacity. 

This  virtue  is,  as  we  have  seen,  conceived  under  very  differ- 
ent degrees  of  dignity,  from  mere  worldly  prudence  up  to 
heavenly  wisdom,  being  opposed  sometimes  by  Stultitia,  some- 
times by  Ignorantia.  I do  not  find,  in  any  of  the  representa- 
tions of  her,  that  her  truly  distinctive  character,  namely, 
forethought , is  enough  insisted  upon  : Giotto  expresses  her  vigi- 
lance and  just  measurement  or  estimate  of  all  things  by  paint- 
ing her  as  Janus-lieaded,  and  gazing  into  a convex  mirror, 
with  compasses  in  her  right  hand ; the  convex  mirror  showing 
her  power  of  looking  at  many  things  in  small  compass.  But 
forethought  or  anticipation,  by  which,  independently  of  greater 
or  less  natural  capacities,  one  man  becomes  more  prudent  than 
another,  is  never  enough  considered  or  symbolized. 

The  idea  of  this  virtue  oscillates,  in  the  Greek  systems, 
between  Temperance  and  Heavenly  Wisdom. 

§ lxxxv.  Eighth  side.  Hope.  A figure  full  of  devotional 
expression,  holding  up  its  hands  as  in  prayer,  and  looking  to 
a hand  which  is  extended  towards  it  out  of  sunbeams.  In  the 
Renaissance  copy  this  hand  does  not  appear. 

Of  all  the  virtues,  this  is  the  most  distinctively  Christian  (it 
could  not,  of  course,  enter  definitely  into  any  Pagan  scheme)  ; 
and  above  all  others,  it  seems  to  me  the  testing  virtue, — that 
by  the  possession  of  which  we  may  most  certainly  determine 
whether  we  are  Christians  or  not ; for  many  men  have  charity, 
that  is  to  say,  general  kindness  of  heart,  or  even  a kind  of 
faith,  who  have  not  any  habitual  hope  of,  or  longing  for, 
heaven.  The  Hope  of  Giotto  is  represented  as  winged,  rising 
in  the  air,  while  an  angel  holds  a crown  before  her.  I do  not 
know  if  Spenser  was  the  first  to  introduce  our  marine  virtue, 
leaning  on  an  anchor,  a symbol  as  inaccurate  as  it  is  vulgar '. 
for,  in  the  first  place,  anchors  are  not  for  men,  but  for  ships  ; 
and  in  the  second,  anchorage  is  the  characteristic  not  of  Hope, 
but  of  Faith.  Faith  is  dependent,  but  Hope  is  aspirant 


340 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Spenser,  however,  introduces  Hope  twice, — the  first  time  as 
the  Virtue  with  the  anchor ; but  afterwards  fallacious  Hope, 
far'  more  beautifully,  in  the  Masque  of  Cupid  : 

“ She  always  smyld,  and  in  her  hand  did  hold 
An  holy-water  sprinckle,  dipt  in  deowe.” 

§ lxxxvi.  Tenth  Capital.  First  side.  Luxury  (the  opposite 
of  chastity,  as  above  explained).  A woman  with  a jewelled 
chain  across  her  forehead,  smiling  as  she  looks  into  a mirror, 
exposing  her  breast  by  drawing  down  her  dress  with  one 
hand.  Inscribed  “luxuria  sum  imensa.” 

These  subordinate  forms  of  vice  are  not  met  with  so  fre- 
quently in  art  as  those  of  the  opposite  virtues,  but  in  Spenser 
we  find  them  all.  His  Luxury  rides  upon  a goat : 

“ In  a greene  gowne  he  clothed  was  full  faire, 

Which  underneath  did  hide  his  filthinesse, 

And  in  his  hand  a burning  hart  he  bare.” 

But,  in  fact,  the  proper  and  comprehensive  expression  of 
this  vice  is  the  Cupid  of  the  ancients ; and  there  is  not  any 
minor  circumstance  more  indicative  of  the  intense  difference 
between  the  mediaeval  and  the  Renaissance  spirit,  than  the 
mode  in  which  this  god  is  represented. 

I have  above  said,  that  all  great  European  art  is  rooted  in 
the  thirteenth  century  ; and  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  a 
kind  of  central  year  about  which  we  may  consider  the  energy 
of  the  middle  ages  to  be  gathered  ; a kind  of  focus  of  time 
which,  by  what  is  to  my  mind  a most  touching  and  impressive 
Divine  appointment,  has  been  marked  for  us  by  the  greatest 
writer  of  the  middle  ages,  in  the  first  words  he  utters  ; namely, 
the  year  1300,  the  “ mezzo  del  cammin”  of  the  life  of  Dante. 
Now,  therefore,  to  Giotto,  the  contemporary  of  Dante,  and 
who  drew  Dante’s  still  existing  portrait  in  this  very  year,  1300, 
we  may  always  look  for  the  central  mediaeval  idea  in  any  sub- 
ject : and  observe  how  he  represents  Cupid  ; as  one  of  three, 
a terrible  trinity,  his  companions  being  Satan  and  Death  ; and 
he  himself  “ a lean  scarecrow,  with  bow,  quiver,  and  fillet,  and 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


341 


feetending  in  claws,”*  thrust  down  into  Hell  by  Penance, 
from  the  presence  of  Purity  and  Fortitude.  Spenser,  who  has 
been  so  often  noticed  as  furnishing  the  exactly  intermediate 
type  of  conception  between  the  mediaeval  and  the  Renaissance, 
indeed  represents  Cupid  under  the  form  of  a beautiful  winged 
god,  and  riding  on  a lion,  but  still  no  plaything  of  the  Graces, 
but  full  of  terror  : 

1 1 With  that  the  darts  which  his  right  hand  did  straine 
Full  dreadfully  he  shooke,  that  all  did  quake, 

And  clapt  on  hye  his  coloured  winges  twaine, 

That  all  his  many  it  afraide  did  make.” 

His  many , that  is  to  say,  his  company  ; and  observe  what  a 
company  it  is.  Before  him  go  Fancy,  Desire,  Doubt,  Danger, 
Fear,  Fallacious  Hope,  Dissemblance,  Suspicion,  Grief,  Fury, 
Displeasure,  Despite,  and  Cruelty.  After  him,  Beproach,  Re- 
pentance, Shame, 

il  Unquiet  Care,  and  fond  Unthrifty  head, 

Lewd  Losse  of  Time,  and  Sorrow  seeming  dead, 

Inconstant  Cliaunge,  and  false  Disloyalty, 

Consuming  Riotise,  and  guilty  Dread 
Of  heavenly  vengeaunce  ; faint  Infirmity, 

Vile  Poverty,  and  lastly  Death  with  infamy.” 

Compare  these  two  pictures  of  Cupid  with  the  Love-god  of 
the  Renaissance,  as  he  is  represented  to  this  day,  confused 
with  angels,  in  every  faded  form  of  ornament  and  allegory,  in 
our  furniture,  our  literature,  and  our  minds. 

§ lxxxvii.  Second  side.  Gluttony.  A woman  in  a turban, 
with  a jewelled  cup  in  her  right  hand.  In  her  left,  the  clawed 
limb  of  a bird,  which  she  is  gnawing.  Inscribed  “ gula  sink 

ORDINE  SUM.” 

Spenser’s  Gluttony  is  more  than  usually  fine  : 

“ His  belly  was  upblowue  with  luxury, 

And  eke  with  fatnesse  swollen  were  his  eyne, 

And  like  a crane  his  necke  was  long  and  fyne, 

Wherewith  he  swallowed  up  excessive  feast, 

For  want  whereof  poore  people  oft  did  pyne.” 

* Lord  Lindsay,  vol.  ii.  letter  iv. 


342 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


He  rides  upon  a swine,  and  is  clad  in  vine-leaves,  with  5 
garland  of  ivy.  Compare  the  account  of  Excesse,  above,  as 
opposed  to  Temperance. 

§ lxxxviii.  Third  side . Pride.  A knight,  with  a heavy  and 
stupid  face,  holding  a sword  with  three  edges  : his  armor 
covered  with  ornaments  in  the  form  of  roses,  and  with  two 
ears  attached  to  his  helmet.  The  inscription  indecipherable, 

all  but  “ SUPERBIA.” 

Spenser  has  analyzed  this  vice  with  great  care.  He  first 
represents  it  as  the  Pride  of  life  ; that  is  to  say,  the  pride 
which  runs  in  a deep  under  current  through  all  the  thoughts 
and  acts  of  men.  As  such,  it  is  a feminine  vice,  directly  op- 
posed to  Holiness,  and  mistress  of  a castle  called  the  House 
of  Pryde,  and  her  chariot  is  driven  by  Satan,  with  a team  of 
beasts,  ridden  by  the  mortal  sins.  In  the  throne  chamber  of 
her  palace  she  is  thus  described  : 

“ So  proud  slie  shyned  in  lier  princely  state, 

Looking  to  Heaven,  for  Earth,  she  did  disdayne ; 

And  sitting  high,  for  lowly  she  did  hate  : 

Lo,  underneath  her  scornefull  feete  was  layne 
A dreadfull  dragon  with  an  hideous  trayne  ; 

And  in  her  hand  she  held  a mirrhour  bright, 

Wherein  her  face  she  often  vewed  fayne.” 

The  giant  Orgoglio  is  a baser  species  of  pride,  born  of  the 
Earth  and  Eolus ; that  is  to  say,  of  sensual  and  vain  conceits. 
His  foster-father  and  the  keeper  of  his  castle  is  Ignorance. 
(Book  I.  canto  vm.) 

Finally,  Disdain  is  introduced,  in  other  places,  as  the  form 
of  pride  which  vents  itself  in  insult  to  others. 

§ lxxxix.  Fourth  side . Anger.  A woman  tearing  her  dress 
open  at  her  breast.  Inscription  here  undecipherable  ; but  in 
the  Renaissance  copy  it  is  “ ira  crudelts  est  in  me.” 

Giotto  represents  this  vice  under  the  same  symbol ; but  it 
is  the  weakest  of  all  the  figures  in  the  Arena  Chapel.  The 
“ Wrath  ” of  Spenser  rides  upon  a lion,  brandishing  a fire< 
brand,  his  garments  stained  with  blood.  Rage,  or  Furor, 
occurs  subordinately  in  other  places.  It  appears  to  me  vei^ 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


343 


strange  that  neither  Giotto  nor  Spenser  should  have  given 
any  representation  of  the  restrained  Anger,  which  is  infinitely 
the  most  terrible  ; both  of  them  make  him  violent. 

§ xc.  Fifth  side.  Avarice.  An  old  woman  with  a veil  ovel 
her  forehead,  and  a bag  of  money  in  each  hand.  A figure 
very  marvellous  for  power  of  expression.  The  throat  is  all 
made  up  of  sinews  with  skinny  channels  deep  between  them, 
strained  as  by  anxiety,  and  wasted  by  famine  ; the  features 
hunger-bitten,  the  eyes  hollow,  the  look  glaring  and  intense, 
yet  without  the  slightest  caricature.  Inscribed  in  the  Renais- 
sance copy,  “ AVARITIA  IMPLETOR.” 

Spenser’s  Avarice  (the  vice)  is  much  feebler  than  this  ; but 
the  god  Mammon  and  his  kingdom  have  been  described  by 
him  with  his  usual  power.  Note  the  position  of  the  house  of 
Richesse  : 

11  Betwixt  tliem  both  was  but  a little  stride, 

That  did  the  House  of  Bichesse  from  Hell-mouth  divide.” 

It  is  curious  that  most  moralists  confuse  avarice  with  covet- 
ousness, although  they  are  vices  totally  different  in  their 
operation  on  the  human  heart,  and  on  the  frame  of  society. 
The  love  of  money,  the  sin  of  Judas  and  Ananias,  is  indeed 
the  root  of  all  evil  in  the  hardening  of  the  heart ; but  “ covet- 
ousness, which  is  idolatry,”  the  sin  of  Ahab,  that  is,  the  inor- 
dinate desire  of  some  seen  or  recognized  good, — thus  destroy- 
ing peace  of  mind, — is  probably  productive  of  much  more 
misery  in  heart,  and  error  in  conduct,  than  avarice  itself,  only 
covetousness  is  not  so  inconsistent  with  Christianity  : for  cov- 
etousness may  partly  proceed  from  vividness  of  the  affections 
and  hopes,  as  in  David,  and  be  consistent  with  much  charity ; 
not  so  avarice. 

§ xci.  Sixth  side.  Idleness.  Accidia.  A figure  much 
broken  away,  having  had  its  arms  round  two  branches  of 
trees. 

I do  not  know  why  Idleness  should  be  represented  as 
among  trees,  unless,  in  the  Italy  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
forest  country  was  considered  as  desert,  and  therefore  the 


344 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


domain  of  Idleness.  Spenser  fastens  this  vice  especially  upon 
the  clergy, — 

u Upon  a slouthfull  asse  lie  chose  to  ryde, 

Arayd  in  habit  blacke,  and  amis  thin. 

Like  to  an  holy  monck,  the  service  to  begin. 

And  in  his  hand  his  portesse  still  he  bare, 

That  much  was  worne,  but  therein  little  redd.” 


And  he  properly  makes  him  the  leader  of  the  train  of  the 
vices  : 

‘ ‘ May  seem  the  wayne  was  very  evil  ledd, 

When  such  an  one  had  guiding  of  the  way.” 

Observe  that  subtle  touch  of  truth  in  the  “wearing”  of  the 
portesse,  indicating  the  abuse  of  books  by  idle  readers,  so 
thoroughly  characteristic  of  unwilling  studentship  from  the 
schoolboy  upwards. 

§ xcn.  Seventh  side.  Vanity.  She  is  smiling  complacently 
as  she  looks  into  a mirror  in  her  lap.  Her  robe  is  embroid- 
ered with  roses,  and  roses  form  her  crown.  Undecipherable. 

There  is  some  confusion  in  the  expression  of  this  vice,  be- 
tween pride  in  the  personal  appearance  and  lightness  of  pur- 
pose. The  word  Vanitas  generally,  I think,  bears,  in  the 
mediaeval  period,  the  sense  given  it  in  Scripture.  “Let  not 
him  that  is  deceived  trust  in  Vanity,  for  Vanity  shall  be  his 
recompense.”  “Vanity  of  Vanities.”  “The  Lord  knowTeth 
the  thoughts  of  the  wise,  that  they  are  vain.”  It  is  difficult 
to  find  this  sin, — which,  after  Pride,  is  the  most  universal,  per- 
haps the  most  fatal,  of  all,  fretting  the  whole  depth  of  our 
humanity  into  storm  “to  waft  a feather  or  to  drown  a fly,” — 
definitely  expressed  in  art.  Even  Spenser,  I think,  has  only 
partially  expressed  it  under  the  figure  of  Phaedria,  more 
properly  Idle  Mirth,  in  the  second  book.  The  idea  is,  how- 
ever, entirely  worked  out  in  the  Vanity  Fair  of  the  “Pilgrim’s 
Progress.” 

§ xcm.  Eighth  side.  Envy.  One  of  the  noblest  pieces  of 
expression  in  the  series.  She  is  pointing  malignantly  with 
her  finger  ; a serpent  is  wreathed  about  her  head  like  a cap, 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


345 


another  forms  the  girdle  of  her  waist,  and  a dragon  rests  in 
her  lap. 

Giotto  has,  however,  represented  her,  with  still  greater 
subtlety,  as  having  her  fingers  terminating  in  claws,  and  rais- 
ing her  right  hand  with  an  expression  partly  of  impotent  re- 
gret, partly  of  involuntary  grasping  ; a serpent,  issuing  from 
her  mouth,  is  about  to  bite  her  between  the  eyes ; she  lias 
long  membranous  ears,  horns  on  her  head,  and  flames  con- 
suming her  body.  The  Envy  of  Spenser  is  only  inferior  to 
that  of  Giotto,  because  the  idea  of  folly  and  quickness  of  hear- 
ing is  not  suggested  by  the  size  of  the  ear  : in  other  respects 
it  is  even  finer,  joining  the  idea  of  fury,  in  the  wolf  on  which 
he  rides,  with  that  of  corruption  on  his  lips,  and  of  discolora- 
tion or  distortion  in  the  whole  mind  : 

“ Malicious  Envy  rode 
Upon  a ravenous  wolfe,  and  still  did  chaw 
Between  his  cankred  teetli  a venemous  tode, 

That  all  the  poison  ran  about  his  jaw. 

All  in  a kirtle  of  discol-ourd  say 
He  clothed  was , ypaynted  full  of  eiesy 
And  in  his  bosome  secretly  there  lay 
An  hatefull  snake,  the  which  his  taile  uptyes 
In  many  folds,  and  mortall  sting  imply es.” 

He  has  developed  the  idea  in  more  detail,  and  still  more 
loathsomely,  in  the  twelfth  canto  of  the  fifth  book. 

§ xciv.  Eleventh  Capital.  Its  decoration  is  composed  of 
eight  birds,  arranged  as  shown  in  Plate  Y.  of  the  “ Seven 
Lamps,”  which,  however,  was  sketched  from  the  Renaissance 
copy.  These  birds  are  all  varied  in  form  and  action,  but  not 
so  as  to  require  special  description. 

§ xcv.  Twelfth  Capital.  This  has  been  very  interesting, 
but  is  grievously  defaced,  four  of  its  figures  being  entirely 
broken  away,  and  the  character  of  two  others  quite  undeci- 
pherable. It  is  fortunate  that  it  has  been  copied  in  the  thirty- 
third  capital  of  the  Renaissance  series,  from  which  we  are  able 
to  identify  the  lost  figures. 

First  side . Misery.  A man  with  a wan  face,  seemingly 


340 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


pleading  with  a child  who  has  its  hands  crossed  on  its  breast 
There  is  a buckle  at  his  own  breast  in  the  shape  of  a cloven 
heart.  Inscribed  “ miseria.” 

The  intention  of  this  figure  is  not  altogether  apparent,  as  it 
is  by  no  means  treated  as  a vice  ; the  distress  seeming  real, 
and  like  that  of  a parent  in  poverty  mourning  over  his  child. 
Yet  it  seems  placed  here  as  in  direct  opposition  to  the  virtue 
of  Cheerfulness,  which  follows  next  in  order  ; rather,  however, 
I believe,  with  the  intention  of  illustrating  human  life,  than 
the  character  of  the  vice  which,  as  we  have  seen,  Dante  placed 
in  the  circle  of  hell.  The  word  in  that  case  would,  I think, 
have  been  “ Tristitia,”  the  “ unholy  Griefe”  of  Spenser — 

“ All  in  sable  sorrowfully  clad, 

Downe  hanging  his  dull  head  with  heavy  chere : 


A pair  of  pincers  in  his  hand  he  had, 

With  which  he  pinched  people  to  the  heart.” 

He  has  farther  amplified  the  idea  under  another  figure  in 
the  fifth  canto  of  the  fourth  book  : 

u His  name  was  Care  ; a blacksmith  by  his  trade, 

That  neither  day  nor  night  from  working  spared  ; 

But  to  small  purpose  yron  wedges  made  : 

Those  be  unquiet  thoughts  that  carefull  minds  invade. 

Rude  was  his  garment,  and  to  rags  all  rent, 

Ne  better  had  he,  ne  for  better  cared  ; 

With  blistered  hands  among  the  cinders  brent.” 

It  is  to  be  noticed,  however,  that  in  the  Renaissance  copy 
this  figure  is  stated  to  be,  not  Miseria,  but  “ Misericordia.” 
The  contraction  is  a very  moderate  one,  Misericordia  being 
in  old  MS.  written  always  as  “ Mia.”  If  this  reading  be  right, 
the  figure  is  placed  here  rather  as  the  companion,  than  the 
opposite,  of  Cheerfulness ; unless,  indeed,  it  is  intended  to 
unite  the  idea  of  Mercy  and  Compassion  with  that  of  Sacred 
Sorrow. 

§ xcvi.  Second  side.  Cheerfulness.  A woman  with  long 
flowing  hair,  crowned  with  roses,  playing  on  a tambourine, 
and  with  open  lips,  as  singing.  Inscribed  “ alacritas.” 

We  have  already  met  with  this  virtue  among  those  espe* 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


347 


daily  set  by  Spenser  to  attend  on  Womanhood.  It  is  inscribed 
in  the  Renaissance  copy,  “ alachritas  chanit  mecum.”  Note 
the  gutturals  of  the  rich  and  fully  developed  Venetian  dialect 
now  affecting  the  Latin,  which  is  free  from  them  in  the  earlier 
capitals. 

§ xcvn.  Third  side.  Destroyed  ; but,  from  the  copy,  we 
find  it  has  been  Stultitia,  Folly  ; and  it  is  there  represented 
simply  as  a man  riding,  a sculpture  worth  the  consideration 
of  the  English  residents  who  bring  their  horses  to  Venice. 
Giotto  gives  Stultitia  a feather,  cap,  and  club.  In  early  man- 
uscripts he  is  always  eating  with  one  hand,  and  striking  with 
the  other  ; in  later  ones  he  has  a cap  and  bells,  or  cap  crested 
with  a cock’s  head,  whence  the  word  “ coxcomb.” 

§ xcvm.  Fourth  side . Destroyed,  all  but  a book,  which 
identifies  it  with  the  ‘c  Celestial  Chastity”  of  the  Renaissance 
copy  ; there  represented  as  a woman  pointing  to  a book  (con- 
necting the  convent  life  with  the  pursuit  of  literature  ?). 

Spenser’s  Chastity,  Britomart,  is  the  most  exquisitely 
wrought  of  all  his  characters  ; but,  as  before  noticed,  she  is 
not  the  Chastity  of  the  convent,  but  of  wedded  life. 

§ xcix.  Fifth  side.  Only  a scroll  is  left ; but, . from  the 
copy,  we  find  it  has  been  Honesty  or  Truth.  Inscribed  “ hon- 
est atem  diligo.”  It  is  very  curious,  that  among  all  the  Chris- 
tian systems  of  the  virtues  which  we  have  examined,  we  should 
find  this  one  in  Venice  only. 

The  Truth  of  Spenser,  Una,  is,  after  Chastity,  the  most  ex- 
quisite character  in  the  “Faerie  Queen.” 

§ c.  Sixth  side.  Falsehood.  An  old  woman  leaning  on  a 
crutch  ; and  inscribed  in  the  copy,  “ falsitas  in  me  semper 
est.”  The  Fidessa  of  Spenser,  the  great  enemy  of  Una,  or 
Truth,  is  far  more  subtly  conceived,  probably  not  without 
special  reference  to  the  Papal  deceits.  In  her  true  form  she 
is  a loathsome  hag,  but  in  her  outward  aspect, 

“ A goodly  lady,  clad  in  scarlot  red, 

Purfled  with  gold  and  pearle  ; . . . 

Her  wanton  palfrey  all  was  overspred 
With  tinsell  trappings,  woven  like  a wave, 

Whose  bridle  rung  with  golden  bels  and  bosses  brave.57 


34:8 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


Dante’s  Fraud,  Geryon,  is  the  finest  personification  of  all, 
but  the  description  (Inferno,  canto  xvii.)  is  too  long  to  be 
quoted. 

§ ci.  Seventh  side.  Injustice.  An  armed  figure  holding  a 
halbert ; so  also  in  the  copy.  The  figure  used  by  Giotto 
■with  the  particular  intention  of  representing  unjust  govern- 
ment, is  represented  at  the  gate  of  an  embattled  castle  in  a 
forest,  between  rocks,  while  various  deeds  of  violence  are  com- 
mitted at  his  feet.  Spensers  “Adicia”  is  a furious  hag,  at 
last  transformed  into  a tiger. 

Eighth  side.  A man  with  a dagger  looking  sorrowfully  at 
a child,  who  turns  its  back  to  him.  I cannot  understand  this 
figure.  It  is  inscribed  in  the  copy,  “ astinecia  (Abstinentia?) 
opitima  ? ” 

§ cii.  Thirteenth  Capital.  It  has  lions’  heads  all  round, 
coarsely  cut. 

Fourteenth  Capital.  It  has  various  animals,  each  sitting 
on  its  haunches.  Three  dogs,  one  a greyhound,  one  long- 
haired, one  short-haired  with  bells  about  its  neck  ; two 
monkeys,  one  with  fan-shaped  hair  projecting  on  each  side  of 
its  face  ; a noble  boar,  with  its  tusks,  hoofs,  and  bristles 
sharply  cut ; and  a lion  and  lioness. 

§ cm.  Fifteenth  Capital.  The  pillar  to  which  it  belongs  is 
thicker  than  the  rest,  as  well  as  the  one  over  it  in  the  upper 
arcade. 

The  sculpture  of  this  capital  is  also  much  coarser,  and 
seems  to  me  later  than  that  of  the  rest ; and  it  has  no  inscrip- 
tion, which  is  embarrassing,  as  its  subjects  have  had  much 
meaning ; but  I believe  Selvatico  is  right  in  supposing  it  to 
have  been  intended  for  a general  illustration  of  Idleness. 

First  side.  A woman  with  a distaff ; her  girdle  richly 
decorated,  and  fastened  by  a buckle. 

Second  side.  A youth  in  a long  mantle,  with  a rose  in  his 
hand. 

Third  side.  A woman  in  a turban  stroking  a puppy  which 
she  holds  by  the  haunches. 

Fourth  side . A man  with  a parrot. 

Fifth  side.  A woman  in  a very  rich  costume,  with  braided 


THE  DECAL  PALACE. 


349 


hair,  and  dress  thrown  into  minute  folds,  holding  a rosary  (?) 
in  her  left  hand,  her  right  on  her  breast. 

Sixth  side . A man  with  a very  thoughtful  face,  laying  his 
hand  upon  the  leaves  of  the  capital. 

Seventh  side.  A crowned  lady,  with  a rose  in  her  hand. 
Eighth  side.  A boy  with  a ball  in  his  left  hand,  and  his 
right  laid  on  his  breast. 

§ civ.  Sixteenth  Capital.  It  is  decorated  with  eight  large 
heads,  partly  intended  to  be  grotesque,*  and  very  coarse  and 
bad,  except  only  that  in  the  sixth  side,  which  is  totally  dif- 
ferent from  all  the  rest,  and  looks  like  a portrait.  It  is  thin, 
thoughtful  and  dignified  ; thoroughly  fine  in  every  way.  It 
wears  a cap  surmounted  by  two  winged  lions  ; and,  therefore, 
I think  Selvatico  must  have  inaccurately  written  the  list  given 
in  the  note,  for  this  head  is  certainly  meant  to  express  the 
superiority  of  the  Venetian  character  over  that  of  other  na- 
tions. Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  all  early  sculpture, 
than  its  appreciation  of  the  signs  of  dignity  of  character  in 
the  features,  and  the  way  in  which  it  can  exalt  the  principal 
figure  in  any  subject  by  a few  touches. 

§ cv.  Seventeenth  Capital.  This  has  been  so  destroyed  by 
the  sea  wind,  which  sweeps  at  this  point  of  the  arcade  round 
the  angle  of  the  palace,  that  its  inscriptions  are  no  longer 
legible,  and  great  part  of  its  figures  are  gone.  Selvatico 
states  them  as  follows  : Solomon,  the  wise  ; Priscian,  the 
grammarian  ; Aristotle,  the  logician  ; Tully,  the  orator ; Py- 
thagoras, the  philosopher  ; Archimedes,  the  mechanic  ; Or- 
pheus, the  musician  ; Ptolemy  the  astronomer.  The  frag- 
ments actually  remaining  are  the  following  : 

First  side.  A figure  with  two  books,  in  a robe  richly  dec- 
orated with  circles  of  roses.  Inscribed  “ Salomon  (sap)eens.” 
Second  side.  A man  with  one  book,  poring  over  it  : he  has 
had  a long  stick  or  reed  in  his  hand.  Of  inscription  only  the 
letters  “ grammatic  ” remain. 

* Selvatico  states  tliat  these  are  intended  to  be  representative  of  eight 
nations,  Latins,  Tartars,  Turks,  Hungarians,  Greeks,  Goths,  Egyptians, 
and  Persians.  Either  the  inscriptions  are  now  defaced  or  I have  care' 
lessly  omitted  to  note  them. 


350 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Third  side.  “ aristotle  : ” so  inscribed.  He  has  a peaked 
double  beard  and  a flat  cap,  from  under  which  his  long  hair 
falls  down  his  back. 

Fourth  side.  Destroyed. 

Fifth  side.  Destroyed,  ail  but  a board  with  three  (counters  ?) 
on  it. 

Sixth  side.  A figure  with  compasses.  Inscribed  “ geo- 
met  * * ” 

Seventh  side.  Nothing  is  left  but  a guitar  with  its  handle 
wrought  into  a lion’s  head. 

Eighth  side.  Destroyed. 

§ cvi.  We  have  now  arrived  at  the  Eighteenth  Capital,  the 
most  interesting  and  beautiful  of  the  palace.  It  represents 
the  planets,  and  the  sun  and  moon,  in  those  divisions  of  the 
zodiac  known  to  astrologers  as  their  “ houses  ; ” and  perhaps 
indicates,  by  the  position  in  which  they  are  placed,  the  period 
of  the  year  at  which  this  great  corner-stone  was  laid.  The  in- 
scriptions above  have  been  in  quaint  Latin  rhyme,  but  are 
now  decipherable  only  in  fragments,  and  that  with  the  more 
difficulty  because  the  rusty  iron  bar  that  binds  the  abacus  has 
broken  away,  in  its  expansion,  nearly  all  the  upper  portions 
of  the  stone,  and  with  them  the  signs  of  contraction,  which 
are  of  great  importance.  I shall  give  the  fragments  of  them 
that  I could  decipher  ; first  as  the  letters  actually  stand  (put- 
ting, those  of  which  I am  doubtful  in  brackets,  with  a note  of 
interrogation),  and  then  as  I would  read  them. 

§ cvii.  It  should  be  premised  that,  in  modern  astrology,  the 
houses  of  the  planets  are  thus  arranged  : 


The  house  of  the  Sun, 

“ Moon, 

“ of  Mars, 

“ Venus, 

“ Mercury, 

“ Jupiter, 

“ Saturn, 

“ Herschel, 


is  Leo. 

“ Cancer. 

“ Aries  and  Scorpio. 

“ Taurus  and  Libra. 

“ Gemini  and  Virgo. 

“ Sagittarius  and  Pisces. 
“ Capricorn. 

“ Aquarius. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


351 


The  Herschel  planet  being  of  course  unknown  to  the  old 
astrologers,  we  have  only  the  other  six  planetary  powers,  to- 
gether with  the  sun  ; and  Aquarius  is  assigned  to  Saturn  as 
his  house.  I could  not  find  Capricorn  at  all  ; but  this  sign 
may  have  been  broken  away,  as  the  whole  capital  is  grievously 
defaced.  The  eighth  side  of  the  capital,  which  the  Herschel 
planet  would  now  have  occupied,  bears  a sculpture  of  the 
Creation  of  Man  : it  is  the  most  conspicuous  side,  the  one  set 
diagonally  across  the  angle  ; or  the  eighth  in  our  usual  mode 
of  reading  the  capitals,  from  which  I shall  not  depart. 

§ cviii.  The' first  side , then,  or  that  towards  the  Sea,  has 
Aquarius,  as  the  house  of  Saturn,  represented  as  a seated  fig- 
ure beautifully  draped,  pouring  a stream  of  water  out  of  an 
amphora  over  the  leaves  of  the  capital.  His  inscription  is  : 

“et  saturne  domus  (eclocerunt  ?)  Is  7bre.” 

§ cix.  Second  side.  Jupiter,  in  his  houses  Sagittarius  and 
Pisces,  represented  throned,  with  an  upper  dress  disposed  in 
radiating  folds  about  his  neck,  and  hanging  down  upon  his 
breast,  ornamented  by  small  pendent  trefoiled  studs  or  bosses. 
He  wears  the  drooping  bonnet  and  long  gloves  ; but  the  folds 
about  the  neck,  shot  forth  to  express  the  rays  of  the  star,  are 
the  most  remarkable  characteristic  of  the  figure.  He  raises 
his  sceptre  in  his  left  hand  over  Sagittarius,  represented  as  the 
centaur  Chiron  ; and  holds  two  thunnies  in  his  right.  Some- 
thing rough,  like  a third  fish,  has  been  broken  awTay  below 
them  ; the  more  easily  because  this  part  of  the  group  is  en- 
tirely undercut,  and  the  two  fish  glitter  in  the  light,  relieved 
on  the  deep  gloom  below  the  leaves.  The  inscription  is  : 

“INDE  JOVl’  * DONA  PISES  SIMUL  ATQS  CIRONA.” 

Or, 

“Inde  Jovis  dona 
Pisces  simnl  atque  Chirona.” 

* The  comma  in  these  inscriptions  stands  for  a small  cuneiform  mark, 
I believe  of  contraction,  and  the  small  s for  a zigzag  mark  of  the  same 
kind.  The  dots  or  periods  are  similarly  marked  on  the  stone. 


352 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Domus  is,  I suppose,  to  be  understood  before  Jovis  : “Then 
the  house  of  Jupiter  gives  (or  governs?)  the  fishes  and 
Chiron.” 

§ cx.  Third  side.  Mars,  in  his  houses  Aries  and  Scorpio. 
Represented  as  a very  ugly  knight  in  chain  mail,  seated  side- 
ways on  the  ram,  whose  horns  are  broken  away,  and  having  a 
large  scorpion  in  his  left  hand,  whose  tail  is  broken  also,  to 
the  infinite  injury  of  the  group,  for  it  seems  to  have  curled 
across  to  the  angle  leaf,  and  formed  a bright  line  of  light,  like 
the  fish  in  the  hand  of  Jupiter.  The  knight  carries  a shield, 
on  which  fire  and  water  are  sculptured,  and  bears  a banner 
upon  his  lance,  with  the  word  “ deferosum,”  which  puzzled 
me  for  some  time.  It  should  be  read,  I believe,  “ De  ferro 
sum;”  which  would  be  good  Venetian  Latin  for  “I  am  of 
iron.” 

§ cxi.  Fourth  side.  The  Sun,  in  his  house  Leo.  Repre- 
sented under  the  figure  of  Apollo,  sitting  on  the  Lion,  with 
rays  shooting  from  his  head,  and  the  world  in  his  hand. 
The  inscription  : 

“tu  es  domu’  sous  (quo*?)  signe  leoni.” 

I believe  the  first  phrase  is,  “ Tunc  est  Domus  solis  ; ” but 
there  is  a letter  gone  after  the  “ quo,”  and  I have  no  idea 
what  case  of  signum  “ signe  ” stands  for. 

§ cxn.  Fifth  side.  Venus,  in  her  houses  Taurus  and  Libra. 
The  most  beautiful  figure  of  the  series.  She  sits  upon  the 
bull,  who  is  deep  in  the  dewlap,  and  better  cut  than  most  of 
the  animals,  holding  a mirror  in  her  right  hand,  and  the  scales 
in  her  left.  Her  breast  is  very  nobly  and  tenderly  indicated 
under  the  folds  of  her  drapery,  which  is  exquisitely  studied  in 
its  fall.  What  is  left  of  the  inscription,  runs  : 

“ LIBRA  CUMTAURO  DOMUS  * * * PURIOR  AUR 

§ cxiii.  Sixth  side.  Mercury,  represented  as  wearing  a 
pendent  cap,  and  holding  a book  : he  is  supported  by  three 
children  in  reclining  attitudes,  representing  his  houses  Gemini 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


35S 


and  Virgo.  But  I cannot  understand  the  inscription,  though 
more  than  usually  legible. 

“ OCCUPAT  ERIGONE  STIBONS  GEMINUQ’  LACONE.” 

g cxiy.  Seventh  side.  The  Moon,  in  her  house  Cancer.  This 
sculpture,  which  is  turned  towards  the  Piazzetta,  is  the  most 
jncturesque  of  the  series.  The  moon  is  represented  as  a 
woman  in  a boat,  upon  the  sea,  who  raises  the  crescent  in  her 
right  hand,  and  with  her  left  draws  a crab  out  of  the  waves, 
up  the  boat’s  side.  The  moon  was,  I believe,  represented  in 
Egyptian  sculptures  as  in  a boat ; but  I rather  think  the  Vene- 
tian was  not  aware  of  this,  and  that  he  meant  to  express  the 
peculiar  sweetness  of  the  moonlight  at  Venice,  as  seen  across 
the  lagoons.  Whether  this  was  intended  by  putting  the  planet 
in  the  boat,  may  be  questionable,  but  assuredly  the  idea  was 
meant  to  be  conveyed  by  the  dress  of  the  figure.  For  all  the 
draperies  of  the  other  figures  on  this  capital,  as  well  as  on  the 
rest  of  the  fa9ade,  are  disposed  in  severe  but  full  folds,  show'- 
ing  little  of  the  forms  beneath  them  ; but  the  moon’s  drapery 
ripples  down  to  her  feet,  so  as  exactly  to  suggest  the  trembling 
of  the  moonlight  on  the  waves.  This  beautiful  idea  is  highly 
characteristic  of  the  thoughtfulness  of  the  early  sculptors : 
five  hundred  men  may  be  now  found  who  could  have  cut  the 
drapery,  as  such,  far  better,  for  one  who  wrould  have  disposed 
its  folds  with  this  intention.  The  inscription  is  : 

“lune  canceu  domu  t.  pbet  iorbe  signoru.” 

§ cxv.  Eighth  side.  God  creating  Man.  Represented  as  a 
throned  figure,  with  a glory  round  the  head,  laying  his  left 
hand  on  the  head  of  a naked  youth,  and  sustaining  him  with 
his  right  hand.  The  inscription  puzzled  me  for  a long  time  * 
but  except  the  lost  r and  m of  “ formavit,”  and  a letter  quite 
undefaced,  but  to  me  unintelligible,  before  the  word  Eva,  in 
the  shape  of  a figure  of  7,  I have  safely  ascertained  the  rest. 

“delimo  dsada  deco  stafo  **  avitTeva.” 

Or 

“ Be  limo  Dominus  Adam,  de  costa  fo(rm)  avit  Evam  ; ” 

From  the  dust  the  Lord  made  Adam,  and  from  the  rib  Eve. 

Vol.  II. —2d 


354 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


I imagine  the  whole  of  this  capital,  therefore — the  principal 
one  of  the  old  palace, — to  have  been  intended  to  signify,  first, 
the  formation  of  the  planets  for  the  service  of  man  upon  the 
earth  ; secondly,  the  entire  subjection  of  the  fates  and  fortune 
of  man  to  the  will  of  God,  as  determined  from  the  time  when 
the  earth  and  stars  were  made,  and,  in  fact,  written  in  the 
volume  of  the  stars  themselves. 

Thus  interpreted,  the  doctrines  of  judicial  astrology  were 
not  only  consistent  with,  but  an  aid  to,  the  most  spiritual  and 
humble  Christianity. 

In  the  workmanship  and  grouping  of  its  foliage,  this  capital 
is,  on  the  whole,  the  finest  I know  in  Europe.  The  sculptor 
has  put  his  whole  strength  into  it.  I trust  that  it  will  appear 
among  the  other  Venetian  casts  lately  taken  for  the  Crystal 
Palace  ; but  if  not,  I have  myself  cast  all  its  figures,  and  two 
of  its  leaves,  and  I intend  to  give  drawings  of  them  on  a large 
scale  in  my  folio  work. 

§ cxvi.  Nineteenth  Capital.  This  is,  of  course,  the  second 
counting  from  the  Sea,  on  the  Piazzetta  side  of  the  palace, 
calling  that  of  the  Pig-tree  angle  the  first. 

It  is  the  most  important  capital,  as  a piece  of  evidence  in 
point  of  dates,  in  the  whole  palace.  Great  pains  have  been 
taken  with  it,  and  in  some  portion  of  the  accompanying  fur- 
niture or  ornaments  of  each  of  its  figures  a small  piece  of 
colored  marble  has  been  inlaid,  with  peculiar  significance  : 
for  the  capital  represents  the  arts  of  sculpture  and  architecture  ; 
and  the  inlaying  of  the  colored  stones  (which  are  far  too  small 
to  be  effective  at  a distance,  and  are  found  in  this  one  capital 
only  of  the  whole  series)  is  merely  an  expression  of  the  archi- 
tect’s feeling  of  the  essential  importance  of  this  art  of  inlaying^ 
and  of  the  value  of  color  generally  in  his  own  art. 

§ cxvii.  First  side.  “ st.  simplicius  ” : so  inscribed.  A 
figure  working  with  a pointed  chisel  on  a small  oblong  block 
of  green  serpentine,  about  four  inches  long  by  one  wide,  inlaid 
in  the  capital.  The  chisel  is,  of  course,  in  the  left  hand/  but 
the  right  is  held  up  open,  with  the  palm  outwards. 

Second  side.  A crowned  figure,  carving  the  image  of  a 
child  on  a small  statue,  with  a ground  of  red  marble.  The 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


355 


sculptured  figure  is  highly  finished,  and  is  in  type  of  head 
much  like  the  Ham  or  Japheth  at  the  Vine  angle.  Inscription 
effaced. 

Third  side.  An  old  man,  uncrowned,  but  with  curling  hair, 
at  work  on  a small  column,  with  its  capital  complete,  and  a 
little  shaft  of  dark  red  marble,  spotted  with  paler  red.  The 
capital  is  precisely  of  the  form  of  that  found  in  the  palace  of 
the  Tiepolos  and  the  other  thirteenth  century  work  of  Venice. 
This  one  figure  would  be  quite  enough,  without  any  other  evi- 
dence whatever,  to  determine  the  date  of  this  flank  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  as  not  later,  at  all  events,  than  the  first  half  of 
the  fourteenth  century.  Its  inscription  is  broken  away,  all 
but  “disipulo.” 

Fourth  side.  A crowned  figure  ; but  the  object  on  which 
it  has  been  working  is  broken  away,  and  all  the  inscription 
except  “ st.  e(n?)as.” 

Fifth  side.  A man  with  a turban,  and  a sharp  chisel,  at 
work  on  a kind  of  panel  or  niche,  the  back  of  which  is  of  red 
marble. 

Sixth  side.  A crowned  figure,  with  hammer  and  chisel, 
employed  on  a little  range  of  windows  of  the  fifth  order,  hav- 
ing roses  set,  instead  of  orbicular  ornaments,  between  the 
spandrils,  with  a rich  cornice,  and  a band  of  marble  inserted 
above.  This  sculpture  assures  us  of  the  date  of  the  fifth  order 
window,  which  it  shows  to  have  been  universal  in  the  early 
fourteenth  century. 

There  are  also  five  arches  in  the  block  on  which  the  sculp- 
tor is  working,  marking  the  frequency  of  the  number  five  in 
the  window  groups  of  the  time. 

Seventh  side.  A figure  at  work  on  a pilaster,  with  Lombar- 
dic  thirteenth  century  capital  (for  account  of  the  series  of  forms 
in  Venetian  capitals,  see  the  final  Appendix  of  the  next  vol- 
ume), the  shaft  of  dark  red  spotted  marble. 

Eighth  side.  A figure  with  a rich  open  crown,  working  on 
a delicate  recumbent  statue,  the  head  of  which  is  laid  on  a 
pillow  covered  with  a rich  chequer  pattern  ; the  whole  sup- 
ported on  a block  of  dark  red  marble.  Inscription  broken 
away,  all  but  “st.  sym.  (Symmachus?)  tv  * * an  vs.”  There 


356 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


appear,  therefore,  altogether  to  have  been  five  saints,  two  ol 
them  popes,  if  Simplicius  is  the  pope  of  that  name  (three  iu 
front,  two  on  the  fourth  and  sixth  sides),  alternating  with  the 
three  uncrowned  workmen  in  the  manual  labor  of  sculpture. 
I did  not,  therefore,  insult  our  present  architects  in  saying 
above  that  they  “ ought  to  work  in  the  mason’s  yard  with 
their  men.”  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a more  interesting 
expression  of  the  devotional  spirit  in  which  all  great  work  was 
undertaken  at  this  time. 

§ cxvm.  Twentieth  Capital.  It  is  adorned  with  heads  of 
animals,  and  is  the  finest  of  the  whole  series  in  the  broad 
massiveness  of  its  effect ; so  simply  characteristic,  indeed,  of 
the  grandeur  of  style  in  the  entire  building,  that  I chose  it  for 
the  first  Plate  in  my  folio  work.  In  spite  of  the  sternness  of 
its  plan,  however,  it  is  wrought  with  great  care  in  surface  de- 
tail ; and  the  ornamental  value  of  the  minute  chasing  obtained 
by  the  delicate  plumage  of  the  birds,  and  the  clustered  bees 
on  the  honey-comb  in  the  bear’s  mouth,  opposed  to  the  strong 
simplicity  of  its  general  form,  cannot  be  too  much  admired. 
There  are  also  more  grace,  life,  and  variety  in  the  sprays  of 
foliage  on  each  side  of  it,  and  under  the  heads,  than  in  any 
other  capital  of  the  series,  though  the  earliness  of  the  work- 
manship is  marked  by  considerable  hardness  and  coldness  in 
the  larger  heads.  A Northern  Gothic  workman,  better  ac- 
quainted with  bears  and  wolves  than  it  was  possible  to  become 
in  St.  Mark’s  Place,  would  have  put  far  more  life  into  these 
heads,  but  he  could  not  have  composed  them  more  skilfully. 

§ cxix.  First  side . A lion  with  a stag’s  haunch  in  his  mouth. 
Those  readers  who  have  the  folio  plate,  should  observe  the 
peculiar  way  in  which  the  ear  is  cut  into  the  shape  of  a ring, 
jagged  or  furrowed  on  the  edge ; an  archaic  mode  of  treat- 
ment peculiar,  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  to  the  lions’  heads  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  The  moment  we  reach  the  Eenaissance 
work,  the  lions’  ears  are  smooth.  Inscribed. simply,  “leo.” 

Second  side . A wolf  with  a dead  bird  in  his  mouth,  its 
body  wonderfully  true  in  expression  of  the  passiveness  of 
death.  The  feathers  are  each  wrought  with  a central  quill 
and  radiating  filaments.  Inscribed  “ lupus.” 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


357 


Third  side.  A fox,  not  at  all  like  one,  with  a dead  cock  in 
his  mouth,  its  comb  and  pendent  neck  admirably  designed  so 
as  to  fall  across  the  great  angle  leaf  of  the  capital,  its  tail  hang- 
ing down  on  the  other  side,  its  long  straight  feathers  exqui- 
sitely cut.  Inscribed  “ (vulp?)is.” 

Fourth  side . Entirely  broken  away. 

Fifth  side . “aper.”  Well  tusked,  with  a head  of  maize  in 
his  mouth ; at  least  I suppose  it  to  be  maize,  though  shaped 
like  a pine-cone. 

Sixth  side.  “ chanis.”  With  a bone,  very  ill  cut ; and  a 
bald-headed  species  of  dog,  with  ugly  flap  ears. 

Seventh  side.  “ muscipulus.”  With  a rat  (?)  in  his  mouth. 

Eighth  side,  “ursus.”  With  a honeycomb,  covered  with 
large  bees. 

§ cxx.  Twenty-first  Capital.  Represents  the  principal  in- 
ferior professions. 

First  side.  An  old  man,  with  his  brow  deeply  wrinkled,  and 
very  expressive  features,  beating  in  a kind  of  mortar  with  a 
hammer.  Inscribed  “ lapicida  sum.” 

Second  side.  I believe,  a goldsmith  ; he  is  striking  a small 
flat  bowl  or  patera,  on  a pointed  anvil,  with  a light  hammer. 
The  inscription  is  gone. 

Third  side.  A shoemaker  with  a shoe  in  his  hand,  and  an 
instrument  for  cutting  leather  suspended  beside  him.  In- 
scription undecipherable. 

Fourth  side.  Much  broken.  A carpenter  planing  a beam 
resting  on  two  horizontal  logs.  Inscribed  “ carpentarius  sum.” 

Fifth  side.  A figure  shovelling  fruit  into  a tub  ; the  latter 
very  carefully  carved  from  what  appears  to  have  been  an  ex- 
cellent piece  of  cooperage.  Two  thin  laths  cross  each  other 
over  the  top  of  it.  The  inscription,  now  lost,  was,  according 
to  Selvatico,  ‘ ‘ mensurator  ” ? 

Sixth  side.  A man,  with  a large  hoe,  breaking  the  ground, 
which  lies  in  irregular  furrows  and  clods  before  him  Now 
undecipherable,  but  according  to  Selvatico,  “ agric^ola.” 

Seventh  side.  A man,  in  a pendent  cap,  writing  0n  a large 
scroll  which  falls  over  his  knee.  Inscribed  “stotarius  sum.” 

Eighth  side.  A man  forging  a sword,  or  scythe-blade  : he 


358 


THE  STOWES  OF  VENICE. 


wears  a large  skull-cap ; beats  with  a large  hammer  on  a solid 
anvil ; and  is  inscribed  “ faber  sum.” 

§ cxxi.  Twenty-second  Capital.  The  Ages  of  Man  ; and 
the  influence  of  the  planets  on  human  life. 

First  side.  The  moon,  governing  infancy  for  four  years, 
according  to  Selvatico.  I have  no  note  of  this  side,  having,  I 
suppose,  been  prevented  from  raising  the  ladder  against  it  by 
some  fruit-stall  or  other  impediment  in  the  regular  course  of 
my  examination  ; and  then  forgotten  to  return  to  it. 

Second  side . A child  with  a tablet,  and  an  alphabet  in- 
scribed on  it.  The  legend  above  is 

“mEcureu*  dnt.  puericie  pan.  S.” 

Or,  ‘'Mercurius  dominatur  pueritise  per  annos  X.”  (Selvatico 
reads  VII.)  “ Mercury  governs  boyhood  for  ten  (or  seven) 
years.” 

Third  side . An  older  youth,  with  another  tablet,  but 

broken.  Inscribed 

‘ 4 ADOLOSCENCIE  * * * P.  AN.  VII.  ” 

Selvatico  misses  this  side  altogether,  as  I did  the  first,  so 
that  the  lost  planet  is  irrecoverable,  as  the  inscription  is  now 
defaced.  Note  the  o for  e in  adolescentia  : so  also  we  con- 
stantly find  u for  o ; showing,  together  with  much  other  in- 
contestable evidence  of  the  same  kind,  how  full  and  deep  the 
old  pronunciation  of  Latin  always  remained,  and  how  ridicu- 
lous our  English  mincing  of  the  vowels  would  have  sounded 
to  a Roman  ear. 

Fourth  side.  A youth  with  a hawk  on  his  fist. 

“IUVENTUTI  f>NT  SOL.  P.  AN.  XIX.” 

\ The  sun  governs  youth  for  nineteen  years. 

Fifth  side.  A man  sitting,  helmed,  with  a sword  over  his 
shoulder.  Inscribed 

“ S ENECTUTI  DNT  MARS.  P.  AN.  XV.” 

Mars  governs  manhood  for  fifteen  years. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


359 


Sixth  side.  A very  graceful  and  serene  figure,  in  the  pen- 
dent cap,  reading. 

“ SENICIE  f)Nf  JUPITER,  P.  ANN.  XII. v 
Jupiter  governs  age  for  twelve  years. 

Seventh  side.  An  old  man  in  a skull-cap,  praying. 

“ decrepite  dnt  satn  uqs  admote.  1J  (Saturnus  usque  ad  mortemBt 
Saturn  governs  decrepitude  until  death. 

Eighth  side . The  dead  body  lying  on  a mattress. 

4 4 ULTIMA  EST  MORS  PENA  PECCATI.” 

Last  comes  death,  the  penalty  of  sin. 

§ cxxii.  Shakspeare’s  Seven  Ages  are  of  course  merely  the 
expression  of  this  early  and  well  known  system.  He  has  de- 
prived- the  dotage  of  its  devotion  ; but  I think  wisely,  as  the 
Italian  system  would  imply  that  devotion  was,  or  should  be, 
always  delayed  until  dotage. 

Twenty-third  Capital.  I agree  with  Selvatico  in  thinking 
this  has  been  restored.  It  is  decorated  with  large  and  vulgar 
heads. 

§ cxxm.  Twenty-fourth  Capital.  This  belongs  to  the  large 
shaft  which  sustains  the  great  party  wall  of  the  Sala  del  Gran 
Consiglio.  The  shaft  is  thicker  than  the  rest ; but  the  cap- 
ital, though  ancient,  is  coarse  and  somewhat  inferior  in  design 
to  the  others  of  the  series.  It  represents  the  history  of  mar- 
riage . the  lover  first  seeing  his  mistress  at  a window,  then 
addressing  her,  bringing  her  presents  ; then  the  bridal,  the 
birth  and  the  death  of  a child.  But  I have  not  been  able  to 
examine  these  sculptures  properly,  because  the  pillar  is  en- 
cumbered by  the  railing  which  surrounds  the  two  guns  set 
before  the  Austrian  guard-house. 

§ cxxiv.  Twenty-fifth  Capital.  We  have  here  the  employ- 
ments of  the  months,  with  which  we  are  already  tolerably 
acquainted.  There  are,  however,  one  or  two  varieties  worth 
noticing  in  this  series. 

First  side . March.  Sitting  triumphantly  in  a rich  dress, 
as  the  beginning  of  the  year. 


360 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE \ 


Second  side.  April  and  May.  April  with  a lamb  : 
with  a feather  fan  in  her  hand. 

Third  side . June.  Carrying  cherries  in  a basket. 

I did  not  give  this  series  with  the  others  in  the  previous 
chapter,  because  this  representation  of  June  is  peculiarly 
Venetian.  It  is  called  “the  month  of  cherries,”  mese  delle 
ceriese,  in  the  popular  rhyme  on  the  conspiracy  of  Tiepolo, 
quoted  above,  Vol.  I. 

The  cherries  principally  grown  near  Venice  are  of  a deep 
red  color,  and  large,  but  not  of  high  flavor,  though  refreshing. 
They  are  carved  upon  the  pillar  with  great  care,  all  their 
stalks  undercut. 

Fourth  side.  July  and  August.  The  first  reaping ; the 
leaves  of  the  straw  being  given,  shooting  out  from  the  tubular 
stalk.  August,  opposite,  beats  (the  grain  ?)  in  a basket. 

Fifth  side.  September.  A woman  standing  in  a wine-tub, 
and  holding  a branch  of  vine.  Very  beautiful. 

Sixth  side.  October  and  November.  I could  not  make  out 
their  occupation ; they  seem  to  be  roasting  or  boiling  some 
root  over  a fire. 

Seventh  side.  December.  Killing  pigs,  as  usual. 

Eighth  side.  January  warming  his  feet,  and  February 
frying  fish.  This  last  employment  is  again  as  characteristic 
of  the  Venetian  winter  as  the  cherries  are  of  the  Venetian 
summer. 

The  inscriptions  are  undecipherable,  except  a few  letters 
here  and  there,  and  the  words  marcius,  aprilis,  and  febru- 

ARIUS. 

This  is  the  last  of  the  capitals  of  the  early  palace  ; the  next, 
or  twenty-sixth  capital,  is  the  first  of  those  executed  in  the 
fifteenth  century  under  Foscari ; and  hence  to  the  Judgment 
angle  the  traveller  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  compare  the  base 
copies  of  the  earlier  work  with  their  originals,  or  to  observe 
the  total  want  of  invention  in  the  Kenaissance  sculptor, 
wherever  he  has  depended  on  his  own  resources.  This,  how- 
ever, always  with  the  exception  of  the  twenty-seventh  and  of 
the  last  capital,  which  are  both  fine. 

I shall  merely  enumerate  the  subjects  and  point  out  the 


TEE  DUCAL  PALACE.  361 

plagiarisms  of  these  capitals,  as  they  are  not  worth  descrip* 
tion. 

§ cxxv.  Twenty-sixth  Capital.  Copied  from  the  fifteenth, 
merely  changing  the  succession  of  the  figures. 

Twenty-seventh  Capital.  I think  it  possible  that  this  may 
be  part  of  the  old  work  displaced  in  joining  the  new  palace 
with  the  old  ; at  all  events,  it  is  well  designed,  though  a little 
coarse.  It  represents  eight  different  kinds  of  fruit,  each  in  a 
basket ; the  characters  well  given,  and  groups  well  arranged, 
but  without  much  care  oi  finish.  The  names  are  inscribed 
above,  though  somewhat  unnecessarily,  and  with  certainly  as 
much  disrespect  to  the  beholder's  intelligence  as  the  sculp- 
tor’s art,  namely,  zerexis,  piri,  chucumeris,  persici,  zuche,. 
moloni,  fici,  huva.  Zerexis  (cherries)  and  Zuche  (gourds) 
both  begin  with  the  same  letter,  whether  meant  for  z,  s,  or  c 
I am  not  sure.  The  Zuche  are  the  common  gourds,  divided 
into  two  protuberances,  one  larger  than  the  other,  like  a 
bottle  compressed  near  the  neck ; and  the  Moloni  are  the 
long  water-melons,  which,  roasted,  form  a staple  food  of 
the  Venetians  to  this  day. 

§ cxxvi.  Twenty-eighth  Capital.  Copied  from  the  seventh. 

Twenty-ninth  Capital.  Copied  from  the  ninth. 

Thirtieth  Capital.  Copied  from  the  tenth.  The  “ Accidia  ” 
is  noticeable  as  having  the  inscription  complete,  “ accidia  me 
stringit  ; ” and  the  “ Luxuria  ” for  its  utter  want  of  expres- 
sion, having  a severe  and  calm  face,  a robe  up  to  the  neck, 
and  her  hand  upon  her  breast.  The  inscription  is  also  differ- 
ent : “luxuria  sum  stercs  (?)  inferi”  (?). 

Thirty-first  Capital.  Copied  from  the  eighth. 

Thirty-second  Capital.  Has  no  inscription,  only  fully 
robed  figures  laying  their  hands,  without  any  meaning,  on 
their  own  shoulders,  heads,  or  chins,  or  on  the  leaves  around 
them. 

Thirty-third  Capital.  Copied  from  the  twelfth. 

Thirty-fourth  Capital.  Copied  from  the  eleventh. 

Thirty-fifth  Capital.  Has  children,  with  birds  or  fruit, 
pretty  in  features,  and  utterly  inexpressive,  like  the  cherubs 
of  the  eighteenth  century. 


362 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ cxxvn.  Thirty-sixth  Capital.  This  is  the  last  of  the 
Piazzetta  fafade,  the  elaborate  one  under  the  Judgment  angle. 
Its  foliage  is  copied  from  the  eighteenth  at  the  opposite  side, 
with  an  endeavor  on  the  part  of  the  Renaissance  sculptor  to 
refine  upon  it,  by  which  he  has  merely  lost  some  of  its  truth 
and  force.  This  capital  will,  however,  be  always  thought,  at 
first,  the  most  beautiful  of  the  whole  series  : and  indeed  it  is 
very  noble  ; its  groups  of  figures  most  carefully  studied,  very 
graceful,  and  much  more  pleasing  than  those  of  the  earlier 
work,  though  with  less  real  power  in  them  ; and  its  foliage  is 
only  inferior  to  that  of  the  magnificent  Fig-tree  angle.  It 
represents,  on  its  front  or  first  side,  Justice  enthroned,  seated 
on  two  lions  ; and  on  the  seven  other  sides  examples  of  acts 
of  justice  or  good  government,  or  figures  of  lawgivers,  in  the 
following  order : 

Second  side . Aristotle,  with  two  pupils,  giving  laws.  In- 
scribed : 

“ARISTOT  * * CHE  DIE  LEGE.” 

Aristotle  who  declares  laws. 

Third,  side.  I have  mislaid  my  note  of  this  side  : Selvatico 
and  Lazari  call  it  “ Isidore  ” (?).* 

Fourth  side . Solon  with  his  pupils.  Inscribed  : 

“ SAL0  UNO  DEI  SETE  SAVI  DI  GRECIA  CHE  DIE  LEGE.” 

Solon,  one  of  the  seven  sages  of  Greece,  who  declares  laws. 

Note,  by  the  by,  the  pure  Venetian  dialect  used  in  this  capi- 
tal, instead  of  the  Latin  in  the  more  ancient  ones.  One  of  the 
seated  pupils  in  this  sculpture  is  remarkably  beautiful  in  the 
sweep  of  his  flowing  drapery. 

Fifth  side.  The  chastity  of  Scipio.  Inscribed  : 

“ ISIPIONE  A CHASTITA  CH  * * * E LA  FIA  (e  la  figlia  ?)  * * ARE.” 

A soldier  in  a plumed  bonnet  presents  a kneeling  maiden  to 
the  seated  Scipio,  who  turns  thoughtfully  away. 

Sixth  side.  Numa  Pompilius  building  churches. 

“ NUMA  POMPILIO  IMPERADOR  EDIFICHADOR  DI  TEMPI  E CHIESE.” 

* Can  they  have  mistaken  the  isipione  of  the  fifth  side  for  the  word 
.Isidore  ? 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


363 


Numa,  in  a kind  of  hat  with  a crown  above  it,  directing  a 
soldier  in  Eoman  armor  (note  this,  as  contrasted  with  the 
mail  of  the  earlier  capitals).  They  point  to  a tower  of  three 
stories  filled  with  tracery. 

Seventh  side . Moses  receiving  the  law.  Inscribed  : 

“ QUANDO  MOSE  RECEVE  LA  LEGE  I SUL  MONTE.’’ 

Moses  kneels  on  a rock,  whence  springs  a beautifully  fancied 
tree,  with  clusters  of  three  berries  in  the  centre  of  three  leaves, 
sharp  and  quaint,  like  fine  Northern  Gothic.  The  half  figure 
of  the  Deity  comes  out  of  the  abacus,  the  arm  meeting  that  of 
Moses,  both  at  full  stretch,  with  the  stone  tablets  between. 

Eighth  side . Trajan  doing  justice  to  the  Widow. 

“ TRAJANO  IMPERADOR  CHE  FA  JUSTITIA  A LA  VEDOVA.” 

He  is  riding  spiritedly,  his  mantle  blown  out  behind  : the 
widow  kneeling  before  his  horse. 

§ cxxvm.  The  reader  will  observe  that  this  capital  is  of 
peculiar  interest  in  its  relation  to  the  much  disputed  question 
of  the  character  of  the  later  government  of  Venice.  It  is  the 
assertion  by  that  government  of  its  belief  that  Justice  only 
could  be  the  foundation  of  its  stability  ; as  these  stones  of 
Justice  and  Judgment  are  the  foundation  of  its  halls  of  council. 
And  this  profession  of  their  faith  may  be  interpreted  in  two 
ways.  Most  modern  historians  would  call  it,  in  common 
with  the  continual  reference  to  the  principles  of  justice  in  the 
political  and  judicial  language  of  the  period,*  nothing  more 
than  a cloak  for  consummate  violence  and  guilt ; and  it  may 
easily  be  proved  to  have  been  so  in  myriads  of  instances.  But 
in  the  main,  I believe  the  expression  of  feeling  to  be  genuine. 
I do  not  believe,  of  the  majority  of  the  leading  Venetians  of 
this  period  whose  portraits  have  come  down  to  us,  that  they 
were  deliberately  and  everlastingly  hypocrites.  I see  no 
hypocrisy  in  their  countenances.  Much  capacity  of  it,  much 
subtlety,  much  natural  and  acquired  reserve  ; but  no  meanness. 

* Compare  the  speech  of  the  Doge  Mocenigo,  above, — “first  justice, 
and  then  the  interests  of  the  state  : ” and  see  Vol.  III.  Chap.  II.  § lix. 


364 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


On  the  contrary,  infinite  grandeur,  repose,  courage,  and  the 
peculiar  unity  and  tranquillity  of  expression  which  come  of 
sincerity  or  wholeness  of  heart,  and  which  it  would  take  much 
demonstration  to  make  me  believe  could  by  any  possibility  be 
seen  on  the  countenance  of  an  insincere  man.  I trust,  there- 
fore, that  these  Venetian  nobles  of  the  fifteenth  century  did,  in 
the  main,  desire  to  do  judgment  and  justice  to  all  men  ; but, 
as  the  whole  system  of  morality  had  been  by  this  time  under- 
mined by  the  teaching  of  the  Romish  Church,  the  idea  of 
justice  had  become  separated  from  that  of  truth,  so  that  dis- 
simulation in  the  interest  of  the  state  assumed  the  aspect  of 
duty.-  We  had,  perhaps,  better  consider,  with  some  careful- 
ness, the  mode  in  which  our  own  government  is  carried  on, 
and  the  occasional  difference  between  parliamentary  and  pri- 
vate morality,  before  we  judge  mercilessly  of  the  Venetians 
in  this  respect.  The  secrecy  with  which  their* political  and 
criminal  trials  were  conducted,  appears  to  modern  eyes  like  a 
confession  of  sinister  intentions  ; but  may  it  not  also  be  con- 
sidered, and  with  more  probability,  as  the  result  of  an  en- 
deavor to  do  justice  in  an  age  of  violence  ? — the  only  means  by 
which  Law  could  establish  its  footing  in  the  midst  of  feudalism. 
Might  not  Irish  juries  at  this  day  justifiably  desire  to  conduct 
their  proceedings  with  some  greater  approximation  to  the 
judicial  principles  of  the  Council  of  Ten  ? Finally,  if  we 
examine,  with  critical  accuracy,  the  evidence  on  which  our 
present  impressions  of  Venetian  government  are  founded,  we 
shall  discover,  in  the  first  place,  that  two-thirds  of  the  tradi- 
tions of  its  cruelties  are  romantic  fables  : in  the  second,  that 
the  crimes  of  which  it  can  be  proved  to  have  been  guilty, 
differ  only  from  those  committed  by  the  other  Italian  powers 
in  being  done  less  wantonly,  and  under  profounder  conviction 
of  their  political  expediency  : and  lastly,  that  the  final  degra- 
dation of  the  Venetian  power  appears  owing  not  so  much  to 
the  principles  of  its  government,  as  to  their  being  forgotten  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure. 

§ cxxix.  We  have  now  examined  the  portions  of  the  palace 
which  contain  the  principal  evidence  of  the  feeling  of  its 
builders.  The  capitals  of  the  upper  arcade  are  exceedingly 


TEE  DUCAL  PALACE . 


365 


various  in  their  character  ; their  design  is  formed,  as  in  the 
lower  series,  of  eight  leaves,  thrown  into  volutes  at  the  an- 
gles, and  sustaining  figures  at  the  flanks  ; but  these  figures 
have  no  inscriptions,  and  though  evidently  not  without  mean- 
ing, cannot  be  interpreted  without  more  knowledge  than  I 
possess  of  ancient  symbolism.  Many  of  the  capitals  toward 
the  Sea  appear  to  have  been  restored,  and  to  be  rude  copies 
of  the  ancient  ones  ; others,  though  apparently  original,  have 
been  somewhat  carelessly  wrought ; but  those  of  them,  which 
are  both  genuine  and  carefully  treated,  are  even  finer  in  com- 
position than  any,  except  the  eighteenth,  in  the  lower  arcade. 
The  traveller  in  Venice  ought  to  ascend  into  the  corridor, 
and  examine  with  great  care  the  series  of  capitals  which 
extend  on  the  Piazzetta  side  from  the  Fig-tree  angle  to  the 
pilaster  which  carries  the  party  wall  of  the  Sala  del  Gran 
Consiglio.  As  examples  of  graceful  composition  in  massy 
capitals  meant  for  hard  service  and  distant  effect,  these  are 
among  the  finest  things  I know  in  Gothic  art ; and  that  above 
the  fig-tree  is  remarkable  for  its  sculptures  of  the  four  winds  ; 
each  on  the  side  turned  towards  the  wind  represented.  Le- 
vante,  the  east  wind  ; a figure  with  rays  round  its  head,  to 
show  that  it  is  always  clear  weather  when  that  wind  blows, 
raising  the  sun  out  of  the  sea  : Hotro,  the  south  wind  ; 
crowned,  holding  the  sun  in  its  right  hand  : Ponente,  the 
west  wind  ; plunging  the  sun  into  the  sea  : and  Tramontana, 
the  north  wind  ; looking  up  afc  the  north  star.  This  capital 
should  be  carefully  examined,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to 
attach  greater  distinctness  of  idea  to  the  magnificent  verbiage 
of  Milton : 

“ Thwart  of  these,  as  fierce, 

Forth  rush  the  Levant  and  the  Ponent  winds, 

Eurus,  and  Zephyr  ; with  their  lateral  noise, 

Sirocco  and  Libecchio.” 

I may  also  especially  point  out  the  bird  feeding  its  three 
young  ones  on  the  seventh  pillar  on  the  Piazzetta  side  ; but 
there  is  no  end  to  the  fantasy  of  these  sculptures ; and  the 
traveller  ought  to  observe  them  all  carefully,  until  he  comes 
to  the  great  Pilaster  or  complicated  pier  which  sustains  the 


366 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


party  wall  of  the  Sala  del  Consiglio  ; that  is  to  say,  the  forty- 
seventh  capital  of  the  whole  series,  counting  from  the  pilaster 
of  the  Vine  angle  inclusive,  as  in  the  series  of  the  lower  ar- 
cade. The  forty-eighth,  forty-ninth,  and  fiftieth  are  bad 
work,  but  they  are  old  ; the  fifty-first  is  the  first  Renaissance 
capital  of  the  upper  arcade  : the  first  new  lion’s  head  with 
smooth  ears,  cut  in  the  time  of  Foscari,  is  over  the  fiftieth 
capital ; and  that  capital,  with  its  shaft,  stands  on  the  apex 
of  the  eighth  arch  from  the  Sea,  on  the  Piazzetta  side,  of 
which  one  spandril  is  masonry  of  the  fourteenth  and  the  other 
of  the  fifteenth  century. 

§ cxxx.  The  reader  who  is  not  able  to  examine  the  build- 
ing on  the  spot  may  be  surprised  at  the  definiteness  with 
which  the  point  of  junction  is  ascertainable  ; but  a glance  at 
the  lowest  range  of  leaves  in  the  opposite  Plate  (XX.)  wall 
enable  him  to  judge  of  the  grounds  on  which  the  above  state- 
ment is  made.  Fig.  12  is  a cluster  of  leaves  from  the  capital 
of  the  Four  Winds  ; early  work  of  the  finest  time.  Fig.  13 
is  a leaf  from  the  great  Renaissance  capital  at  the  Judgment 
angle,  worked  in  imitation  of  the  older  leafage.  Fig.  14  is  a 
leaf  from  one  of  the  Renaissance  capitals  of  the  upper  arcade, 
which  are  all  worked  in  the  natural  manner  of  the  period. 
It  will  be  seen  that  it  requires  no  great  ingenuity  to  distin- 
guish between  such  design  as  that  of  fig.  12  and  that  of  fig. 
14. 

§ cxxxi.  It  is  very  possible  that  the  reader  may  at  first  like 
fig.  14  the  best.  I shall  endeavor,  in  the  next  chapter,  to 
show  why  he  should  not ; but  it  must  also  be  noted,  that  fig. 
12  has  lost,  and  fig;  14  gained,  both  largely,  under  the  hands 
of  the  engraver.  All  the  bluntness  and  coarseness  of  feeling 
in  the  workmanship  of  fig.  14  have  disappeared  on  this  small 
scale,  and  all  the  subtle  refinements  in  the  broad  masses  of 
fig.  12  have  vanished.  They  could  not,  indeed,  be  rendered 
in  line  engraving,  unless  by  the  hand  of  Albert  Durer  ; and  I 
have,  therefore,  abandoned,  for  the  present,  all  endeavor  to 
represent  any  more  important  mass  of  the  early  sculpture  of 
the  Ducal  Palace  : but  I trust  that,  in  a few  months,  casts  of 
many  portions  will  be  within  the  reach  of  the  inhabitants  of 


x. ' 


Plate  XX. — Leafage  of  the  Venetian  Capitals. 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


3 67 


London,  and  that  they  will  be  able  to  judge  for  themselves  of 
their  perfect,  pure,  unlabored  naturalism  ; the  freshness,  elas- 
ticity, and  softness  of  their  leafage,  united  with  the  most 
noble  symmetry  and  severe  reserve, — no  running  to  waste,  no 
loose  or  experimental  lines,  no  extravagance,  and  no  weakness. 
Their  design  is  always  sternly  architectural ; there  is  none  of 
the  wildness  or  redundance  of  natural  vegetation,  but  there  is 
all  the  strength,  freedom,  and  tossing  flow  of  the  breathing 
leaves,  and  all  the  undulation  of  their  surfaces,  rippled,  as 
they  grew,  by  the  summer  winds,  as  the  sands  are  by  the  sea. 

§ cxxxii.  This  early  sculpture  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  then, 
represents  the  state  of  Gothic  work  in  Venice  at  its  central 
and  proudest  period,  i.  e.  circa  1350.  After  this  time,  all  is 
decline, — of  what  nature  and  by  what  steps,  we  shall  inquire 
in  the  ensuing  chapter ; for  as  this  investigation,  though  still 
referring  to  Gothic  architecture,  introduces  us  to  the  first 
symptoms  of  the  Renaissance  influence,  I have  considered  it 
as  properly  belonging  to  the  third  division  of  our  subject. 

§ cxxxiii.  And  as,  under  the  shadow  of  these  nodding 
leaves,  we  bid  farewell  to  the  great  Gothic  spirit,  here  also  we 
may  cease  our  examination  of  the  details  of  the  Ducal  Palace  ; 
for  above  its  upper  arcade  there  are  only  the  four  traceried 
windows,*  and  one  or  two  of  the  third  order  on  the  Rio 
Fagade,  which  can  be  depended  upon  as  exhibiting  the  origi- 
nal workmanship  of  the  older  palace.  I examined  the  capitals 
of  the  four  other  windows  on  the  fagade,  and  of  those  on  the 
Piazzetta,  one  by  one,  with  great  care,  and  I found  them  all 
to  be  of  far  inferior  workmanship  to  those  which  retain  their 
traceries : I believe  the  stone  framework  of  these  windows 
must  have  been  so  cracked  and  injured  by  the  flames  of  the 
great  fire,  as  to  render  it  necessary  to  replace  it  by  new 
traceries  ; and  that  the  present  mouldings  and  capitals  are 
base  imitations  of  the  original  ones.  The  traceries  were  at 
first,  however,  restored  in  their  complete  form,  as  the  holes 

* Some  further  details  respecting  these  portions,  as  well  as  some  nee- 
cessary  confirmations  of  my  statements  of  dates,  are,  however,  given  in 
Appendix  1,  Vol.  Ill  I feared  wearying  the  general  reader  by  intro- 
ducing them  into  the  text. 


368 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


for  the  bolts  which  fastened  the  bases  of  their  shafts  are  still 
to  be  seen  in  the  window-sills,  as  well  as  the  marks  of  the 
inner  mouldings  on  the  soffits.  How  much  the  stone  facing 
of  the  fa9ade,  the  parapets,  and  the  shafts  and  niches  of  the 
angles,  retain  of  their  original  masonry,  it  is  also  impossible 
to  determine ; but  there  is  nothing  in  the  workmanship  of  any 
of  them  demanding  especial  notice  ; still  less  in  the  large 
central  windows  on  each  fayade,  which  are  entirely  of  Renais- 
sance execution.  All  that  is  admirable  in  these  portions  of 
the  building  is  the  disposition  of  their  various  parts  and 
masses,  which  is  without  doubt  the  same  as  in  the  original 
fabric,  and  calculated,  when  seen  from  a distance,  to  produce 
the  same  impression. 

§ cxxxiv.  Not  so  in  the  interior.  All  vestige  of  the  earlier 
modes  of  decoration  was  here,  of  course,  destroyed  by  the 
fires  ; and  the  severe  and  religious  work  of  Guariento  and 
Bellini  has  been  replaced  by  the  wildness  of  Tintoret  and  the 
luxury  of  Veronese.  But  in  this  case,  though  widely- different 
in  temper,  the  art  of  the  renewal  was  at  least*  intellectually  as 
great  as  that  which  had  perished  : and  though  the  halls  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  are  no  more  representative  of  the  character  of 
the  men  by  whom  it  was  built,  each  of  them  is  still  a colossal 
casket  of  priceless  treasure  ; a treasure  whose  safety  has  till 
now  depended  on  its  being  despised,  and  which  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  as  I write,  is  piece  by  piece  being  destroyed  for 
ever. 

§ cxxxv.  The  reader  will  forgive  my  quitting  our  more  im- 
mediate subject,  in  order  briefly  to  explain  the  causes  and 
the  nature  of  this  destruction ; for  the  matter  is  simply  the 
most  important  of  all  that  can  be  brought  under  our  present 
consideration  respecting  the  state  of  art  in  Europe. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  greater  number  of  persons  or  societies 
throughout  Europe,  whom  wealth,  or  chance,  or  inheritance 
has  put  in  possession  of  valuable  pictures,  do  not  know  a 
good  picture  from  a bad  one,*  and  have  no  idea  in  what  the 


* Many  persons,  capable  of  quickly  sympathizing  with  any  excellence, 
when  once  pointed  out  to  them,  easily  deceive  themselves  into  the  sup- 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


369 


value  of  a picture  really  consists.  The  reputation  of  certain 
works  is  raised,  partly  by  accident,  partly  by  the  just  testi- 
mony of  artists,  partly  by  the  various  and  generally  bad  taste 
of  the  public  (no  picture,  that  I know  of,  has  ever,  in  modern 
times,  attained  popularity,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  term,  with- 
out having  some  exceedingly  bad  qualities  mingled  with  its 
good  ones),  and  when  this  reputation  has  once  been  com- 
pletely established,  it  little  matters  to  what  state  the  picture 
may  be  reduced  : few  minds  are  so  completely  devoid  of  im- 
agination as  to  be  unable  to  invest  it  with  the  beauties  which 
they  have  heard  attributed  to  it. 

§ cxxxvi.  This  being  so,  the  pictures  that  are  most  valued 
are  for  the  most  part  those  by  masters  of  established  renown, 
which  are  highly  or  neatly  finished,  and  of  a size  small  enough 
to  admit  of  their  being  placed  in  galleries  or  saloons,  so  as  to 
be  made  subjects  of  ostentation,  and  to  be  easily  seen  by  a 
crowd.  For  the  support  of  the  fame  and  value  of  such  pict- 
ures, little  more  is  necessary  than  that  they  should  be  kept 
bright,  partly  by  cleaning,  which  is  incipient  destruction,  and 
partly  by  what  is  called  “restoring,”  that  is,  painting  over, 
which  is  of  course  total  destruction.  Nearly  all  the  gallery 
pictures  in  modern  Europe  have  been  more  or  less  destroyed 
by  one  or  other  of  these  operations,  generally  exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  estimation  in  which  they  are  held  ; and  as, 
originally,  the  smaller  and  more  highly  finished  works  of  any 
great  master  are  usually  his  worst,  the  contents  of  many  of 
our  most  celebrated  galleries  are  by  this  time,  in  reality,  of 
very  small  value  indeed. 

§ cxxxvn.  On  the  other  hand,  the  most  precious  works  of 
any  noble  painter  are  usually  those  which  have  been  done 
quickly,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  first  thought,  on  a large  scale, 
for  places  where  there  was  little  likelihood  of  their  being  well 
seen,  or  for  patrons  from  whom  there  was  little  prospect  of 
rich  remuneration.  In  general,  the  best  things  are  done  in 

position  that  they  are  judges  of  art.  There  is  only  one  real  test  of  such 
power  of  judgment.  Can  they,  at  a glance,  discover  a good  picture 
obscured  by  the  filth,  and  confused  among  the  rubbish,  of  the  pawn- 
broker’s or  dealer’s  garret  ? 

Vol.  II.—  24 


370 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


this  way,  or  else  in  the  enthusiasm  and  pride  of  accomplishing 
some  great  purpose,  such  as  painting  a cathedral  or  a campo- 
santo  from  one  end  to  the  other,  especially  when  the  time  has 
been  short,  and  circumstances  disadvantageous. 

§ cxxxviii.  Works  thus  executed  are  of  course  despised,  on 
account  of  their  quantity,  as  well  as  their  frequent  slightness, 
in  the  places  where  they  exist;  and  they  are  too  large  to 
be  portable,  and  too  vast  and  comprehensive  to  be  read  on 
the  spot,  in  the  hasty  temper  of  the  present  age.  They  are, 
therefore,  almost  universally  neglected,  whitewashed  by  cus- 
todes,  shot  at  by  soldiers,  suffered  to  drop  from  the  walls 
piecemeal  in  powder  and  rags  by  society  in  general ; but, 
which  is  an  advantage  more  than  counterbalancing  all  this 
evil,  they  are  not  often  “restored.”  What  is  left  of  them, 
however  fragmentary,  however  ruinous,  however  obscured  and 
defiled,  is  almost  always  the  real  thing  ; there  are  no  fresh 
readings  : and  therefore  the  greatest  treasures  of  art  which 
Europe  at  this  moment  possesses  are  pieces  of  old  plaster  on 
ruinous  brick  walls,  where  the  lizards  burrow  and  bask,  and 
which  few  other  living  creatures  ever  approach  ; and  torn 
sheets  of  dim  canvas,  in  waste  corners  of  churches  ; and 
mildewed  stains,  in  the  shape  of  human  figures,  on  the  walls 
of  dark  chambers,  which  now  and  then  an  exploring  traveller 
causes  to  be  unlocked  by  their  tottering  custode,  looks  hastily 
round,  and  retreats  from  in  a weary  satisfaction  at  his  accom- 
plished duty. 

§ cxxxix.  Many  of  the  pictures  on  the  ceilings  and  walls 
of  the  Ducal  Palace,  by  Paul  Veronese  and  Tintoret,  have 
been  more  or  less  reduced,  by  neglect,  to  this  condition. 
Unfortunately  they  are  not  altogether  without  reputation,  and 
their  state  has  drawn  the  attention  of  the  Venetian  authorities 
and  academicians.  It  constantly  happens,  that  public  bodies 
who  will  not  pay  five  pounds  to  preserve  a picture,  will  pay 
fifty  to  repaint  it:*  and  when  I was  at  Venice  in  1846,  there 

* This  is  easily  explained.  There  are,  of  course,  in  every  place  and  at 
all  periods,  bad  painters  who  conscientiously  believe  that  they  can  im- 
prove every  picture  they  touch  ; and  these  men  are  generally,  in  their 
presumption,  the  most  influential  over  the  innocence,  whether  of  mon' 


THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 


371 


were  two  remedial  operations  carrying  on,  at  one  and  the 
same  time,  in  the  two  buildings  which  contain  the  pictures  of 
greatest  value  in  the  city  (as  pieces  of  color,  of  greatest  value 
in  the  world),  curiously  illustrative  of  this  peculiarity  in  hu- 
man nature.  Buckets  were  set  on  the  floor  of  the  Scuola 
di  San  Kocco,  in  every  shower,  to  catch  the  rain  which  came 
through  the  pictures  of  Tintoret  on  the  ceiling ; while  in  the 
Ducal  Palace,  those  of  Paul  Veronese  were  themselves  laid 
on  the  floor  to  be  repainted  ; and  I was  myself  present  at  the 
re-illumination  of  the  breast  of  a white  horse,  with  a brush,  at 
the  end  of  a stick  five  feet  long,  luxuriously  dipped  in  a com- 
mon house-painter’s  vessel  of  paint. 

This  was,  of  course,  a large  picture.  The  process  has 
already  been  continued  in  an  equally  destructive,  though 
somewhat  more  delicate  manner,  over  the  whole  of  the  hum- 
bler canvases  on  the  ceiling  of  the  Sala  del  Gran  Consiglio  ; 
and  I heard  it  threatened  when  I was  last  in  Venice  (1851-2) 
to  the  “ Paradise  ” at  its  extremity,  which  is  yet  in  tolerable 
condition, — the  largest  work  of  Tintoret,  and  the  most  won- 
derful piece  of  pure,  manly,  and  masterly  oil-painting  in  the 
world. 

§ cxl.  I leave  these  facts  to  the  consideration  of  the  Eu- 
ropean patrons  of  art.  Twenty  years  hence  they  will  be 
acknowledged  and  regretted  ; at  present,  I am  well  aware, 
that  it  is  of  little  use  to  bring  them  forward,  except  only  to 
explain  the  present  impossibility  of  stating  what  pictures  are, 
and  what  were,  in  the  interior  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  I can 
only  say,  that  in  the  winter  of  1851,  the  “ Paradise  ” of  Tin- 
toret was  still  comparatively  uninjured,  and  that  the  Camera 
di  Collegio,  and  its  antechamber,  and  the  Sala  de’  Pregadi 
were  full  of  pictures  by  Veronese  and  Tintoret,  that  made 
their  walls  as  precious  as  so  many  kingdoms;  so  precious 
indeed,  and  so  full  of  majesty,  that  sometimes  when  walking 
at  evening  on  the  Lido,  whence  the  great  chain  of  the  Alps, 
crested  with  silver  clouds,  might  be  seen  rising  above  the 

archs  or  municipalities.  The  carpenter  and  slater  have  little  influence 
in  recommending  the  repairs  of  the  roof  ; hut  the  had  painter  has  great 
influence,  as  well  as  interest,  in  recommending  those  of  the  picture. 


372 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


front  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  I used  to  feel  as  much  awe  in 
gazing  on  the  building  as  on  the  hills,  and  could  believe  that 
God  had  done  a greater  work  in  breathing  into  the  narrow- 
ness of  dust  the  mighty  spirits  by  whom  its  haughty  walls 
had  been  raised,  and  its  burning  legends  written,  than  in 
lifting  the  rocks  of  granite  higher  than  the  clouds  of  heaven, 
and  veiling  them  with  their  various  mantle  of  purple  flower 
and  shadowy  pine. 


APPENDIX 


1.  THE  GONDOLIER’S  CRY. 

Most  persons  are  now  well  acquainted  wTith  the  general  as- 
pect of  the  Venetian  gondola,  but  few  have  taken  the  pains  to 
understand  the  cries  of  warning  uttered  by  its  boatmen,  al- 
though those  cries  are  peculiarly  characteristic,  and  very  im- 
pressive to  a stranger,  and  have  been  even  very  sweetly  intro- 
duced in  poetry  by  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes.  It  may  perhaps 
be  interesting  to  the  traveller  in  Venice  to  know  the  general 
method  of  management  of  the  boat  to  which  he  owes  so  many 
happy  hours. 

A gondola  is  in  general  rowed  only  by  one  man,  standing  at 
the  stern  ; those  of  the  upper  classes  having  two  or  more 
boatmen,  for  greater  speed  and  magnificence.  In  order  to 
raise  the  oar  sufficiently,  it  rests,  not  on  the  side  of  the  boat, 
but  on  a piece  of  crooked  timber  like  the  branch  of  a tree,  ris- 
ing about  a foot  from  the  boat’s  side,  and  called  a “ forcola.” 
The  forcola  is  of  different  forms,  according  to  the  size  and 
uses  of  the  boat,  and  it  is  always  somewhat  complicated  in  its 
parts  and  curvature,  allowing  the  oar  various  kinds  of  rests 
and  catches  on  both  its  sides,  but  perfectly  free  play  in  all 
cases  ; as  the  management  of  the  boat  depends  on  the  gondo- 
lier s being  able  in  an  instant  to  place  his  oar  in  any  position* 
The  forcola  is  set  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  boat,  some  six 
feet  from  the  stern  : the  gondolier  stands  on  a little  flat  plat- 
form or  deck  behind  it,  and  throws  nearly  the  entire  weight 
of  his  body  upon  the  forward  stroke.  The  effect  of  this  stroke 
would  be  naturally  to  turn  the  boat’s  head  round  to  the  left, 
as  well  as  to  send  it  forward  ; but  this  tendency  is  corrected 
by  keeping  the  blade  of  the  oar  under  the  water  on  the  return 


374 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


stroke,  and  raising  it  gradually,  as  a full  spoon  is  raised  oui 
of  any  liquid,  so  that  the  blade  emerges  from  the  water  only 
an  instant  before  it  again  plunges.  A downward  and  lateral 
pressure  upon  the  forcola  is  thus  obtained,  which  entirely 
counteracts  the  tendency  given  by  the  forward  stroke ; and 
the  effort,  after  a little  practice,  becomes  hardly  conscious, 
though,  as  it  adds  some  labor  to  the  back  stroke,  rowing  a 
gondola  at  speed  is  hard  and  breathless  work,  though  it  ap- 
pears  easy  and  graceful  to  the  looker-on. 

If  then  the  gondola  is  to  be  turned  to  the  left,  the  forward 
impulse  is  given  without  the  return  stroke ; if  it  is  to  be  turned 
to  the  right,  the  plunged  oar  is  brought  forcibly  up  to  the 
surface  ; in  either  case  a single  strong  stroke  being  enough  to 
turn  the  light  and  flat-bottomed  boat.  But  as  it  has  no  keel, 
when  the  turn  is  made  sharply,  as  out  of  one  canal  into  an- 
other very  narrow  one,  the  impetus  of  the  boat  in  its  former 
direction  gives  it  an  enormous  lee-way,  and  it  drifts  laterally 
up  against  the  wall  of  the  canal,  and  that  so  forcibly,  that  if 
it  has  turned  at  speed,  no  gondolier  can  arrest  the  motion 
merely  by  strength  or  rapidity  of  stroke  of  oar ; but  it  is 
checked  by  a strong  thrust  of  the  foot  against  the  wail  itself, 
the  head  of  the  boat  being  of  course  turned  for  the  moment 
almost  completely  round  to  the  opposite  wall,  and  greater  ex- 
ertion made  to  give  it,  as  quickly  as  possible,  impulse  in  the 
new  direction. 

The  boat  being  thus  guided,  the  cry  “ Premi  ” is  the  order 
from  one  gondolier  to  another  that  he  should  “ press”  or 
thrust  forward  his  oar,  without  the  back  stroke,  so  as  to  send 
the  boat’s  head  round  to  the  left ; and  the  cry  “ Stali  ” is  the 
order  that  he  should  give  the  return  or  upward  stroke  which 
sends  the  boat’s  head  round  to  the  right  Hence,  if  two  gon- 
doliers meet  under  any  circumstances  which  render  it  a mat- 
ter of  question  on  which  side  they  should  pass  each  other,  the 
gondolier  who  has  at  the  moment  the  least  power  over  his 
boat,  cries  to  the  other,  “Premi,”  if  he  wishes  the  boats  to 
pass  with  their  right-hand  sides  to  each  other,  and  “Stali,”  if 
with  their  left.  Now,  in  turning  a corner,  there  is  of  course 
risk  of  collision  between  boats  coming  from  opposite  side^ 


APPENDIX. 


375 


and  warning  is  always  clearly  and  loudly  given  on  approach- 
ing an  angle  of  the  canals.  It  is  of  course  presumed  that  the 
boat  which  gives  the  warning  will  be  nearer  the  turn  than  the 
one  which  receives  and  answers  it ; and  therefore  will  not 
have  so  much  time  to  check  itself  or  alter  its  course.  Hence 
the  advantage  of  the  turn,  that  is,  the  outside,  which  allows 
the  fullest  swing  and  greatest  room  for  lee-way,  is  always 
yielded  to  the  boat  which  gives  warning.  Therefore,  if  the 
warning  boat  is  going  to  turn  to  the  right,  as  it  is  to  have  the 
outside  position,  it  will  keep  its  own  right-hand  side  to  the 
boat  which  it  meets,  and  the  cry  of  warning  is  therefore 
“Premi,”  twice  given  ; first  as  soon  as  it  can  be  heard  round 
the  angle,  prolonged  and  loud,  with  the  accent  on  the  e,  and 
another  strongly  accented  e added,  a kind  of  question,  “Pre- 
mi-e,”  followed  at  the  instant  of  turning,  with  “Ah  Premi,” 
with  the  accent  sharp  on  the  final  i.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  warning  boat  is  going  to  turn  to  the  left,  it  will  pass  with 
its  left-hand  side  to  the  one  ifc  meets ; and  the  warning  cry  is, 
“ Stali-e,  Ah  Stall.”  Hence  the  confused  idea  in  the  mind  of 
the  traveller  that  Stali  means  “to  the  left,”  and  “Premi”  to 
the  right ; while  they  mean,  in  reality,  the  direct  reverse  ; the 
Stali,  for  instance,  being  the  order  to  the  unseen  gondolier 
who  may  be  behind  the  corner,  coming  from  the  left-hand 
side,  that  he  should  hold  as  much  as  possible  to  his  own  right ; 
this  being  the  only  safe  order  for  him,  whether  he  is  going  to 
turn  the  corner  himself,  or  to  go  straight  on  ; for  as  the  warn- 
ing gondola  will  always  swing  right  across  the  canal  in  turn- 
ing, a collision  with  it  is  only  to  be  avoided  by  keeping  well 
within  it,  and  close  up  to  the  corner  which  it  turns. 

There  are  several  other  cries  necessary  in  the  management 
of  the  gondola,  but  less  frequently,  so  that  the  reader  will 
hardly  care  for  their  interpretation  ; except  only  the  “ sciar,” 
which  is  the  order  to  the  opposite  gondolier  to  stop  the  boat 
as  suddenly  as  possible  by  slipping  his  oar  in  front  of  the  for- 
cola.  The  cry  is  never  heard  except  when  the  boatmen  have 
got  into  some  unexpected  position,  involving  a risk  of  col- 
lision ; but  the  action  is  seen  constantly,  when  the  gondola  is 
rowed  by  two  or  more  men  (for  if  performed  by  the  single 


376 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


gondolier  it  only  swings  the  boat’s  head  sharp  round  to  the 
right),  in  bringing  up  at  a landing-place,  especially  when 
there  is  any  intent  of  display,  the  boat  being  first  urged  to  its 
full  speed  and  then  stopped  with  as  much  foam  about  the  oar- 
blades  as  possible,  the  effect  being  much  like  that  of  stopping 
a horse  at  speed  by  pulling  him  on  his  haunches. 

2.  OUR  LADY  OF  SALVATION. 

“ Santa  Maria  della  Salute,”  Our  Lady  of  Health,  or  of 
Safety,  would  be  a more  literal  translation,  yet  not  perhaps 
fully  expressing  the  force  of  the  Italian  word  in  this  case. 
The  church  was  built  between  1630  and  1680,  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  cessation  of  the  plague  ; — of  course  to  the  Virgin, 
to  whom  the  modern  Italian  has  recourse  in  all  his  principal 
distresses,  and  who  receives  his  gratitude  for  all  principal  de- 
liverances. 

The  hasty  traveller  is  usually  enthusiastic  in  his  admiration 
of  this  building  ; but  there  is  a notable  lesson  to  be  derived 
from  it,  which  is  not  often  read.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
broad  canal  of  the  Giudecca  is  a small  church,  celebrated 
among  Renaissance  architects  as  of  Palladian  design,  but 
which  would  hardly  attract  the  notice  of  the  general  observer, 
unless  on  account  of  the  pictures  by  John  Bellini  which  it  con- 
tains, in  order  to  see  which  the  traveller  may  perhaps  remem- 
ber having  been  taken  across  the  Giudecca  to  the  Church  of 
the  “ Kedentore.”  But  he  ought  carefully  to  compare  these 
two  buildings  with  each  other,  the  one  built  “ to  the  Virgin,” 
the  other  “ to  the  Redeemer  ” (also  a votive  offering  after  the 
cessation  of  the  plague  of  1576) ; the  one,  the  most  conspicu- 
ous church  in  Venice,  its  dome,  the  principal  one  by  which 
she  is  first  discerned,  rising  out  of  the  distant  sea  : the  other, 
small  and  contemptible,  on  a suburban  island,  and  only  be- 
coming an  object  of  interest  because  it  contains  three  small 
pictures  ! For  in  the  relative  magnitude  and  conspicuous- 
ness of  these  two  buildings,  we  have  an  accurate  index  of  the 
relative  importance  of  the  ideas  of  the  Madonna  and  of  Christ, 
in  the  modern  Italian  mind. 


APPENDIX . 


377 


Some  further  account  of  this  church  is  given  in  the  final 
Index  to  the  Venetian  buildings  at  the  close  of  the  third 
Volume. 

3.  TIDES  OF  VENICE,  AND  MEASURES  AT  TORCELLO. 

The  lowest  and  highest  tides  take  place  in  Venice  at  differ- 
ent periods,  the  lowest  during  the  winter,  the  highest  in  the 
summer  and  autumn.  During  the  period  of  the  highest  tides, 
the  city  is  exceedingly  beautiful,  especially  if,  as  is  not  unfre- 
quently  the  case,  the  water  rises  high  enough  partially  to 
flood  St.  Mark’s  Place.  Nothing  can  be  more  lovely  or  fan- 
tastic than  the  scene,  when  the  Campanile  and  the  Golden 
Church  are  reflected  in  the  calm  water,  and  the  lighter  gon- 
dolas floating  under  the  very  porches  of  the  fagade.  On  the 
other  hand,  a winter  residence  in  Venice  is  rendered  peculiarly 
disagreeable  by  the  low  tides,  which  sometimes  leave  the 
smaller  canals  entirely  dry,  and  large  banks  of  mud  beneath 
the  houses,  along  the  borders  of  even  the  Grand  Canal.  The 
difference  between  the  levels  of  the  highest  and  lowest  tides  I 
saw  in  Venice  was  6 ft.  3 in.  The  average  fall  rise  is  from 
two  to  three  feet. 


The  measures  of  Torcello  were  intended  for  Appendix  4 ; 
but  having  by  a misprint  referred  the  reader  to  Appendix  3, 1 
give  them  here.  The  entire  breadth  of  the  church  within  the 
walls  is  70  feet ; of  which  the  square  bases  of  the  pillars,  3 feet 
on  each  side,  occupy  6 feet ; and  the  nave,  from  base  to  base, 
measures  31  ft.  1 in.  ; the  aisles  from  base  to  wall,  16  feet  odd 
inches,  not  accurately  ascertainable  on  account  of  the  modern 
wainscot  fittings.  The  intervals  between  the  bases  of  the  pil- 
lars are  8 feet  each,  increasing  toward  the  altar  to  8 ft.  3 in.,  in 
order  to  allow  for  a corresponding  diminution  in  the  diameter 
of  the  bases  from  3 ft.  to  2 ft.  11  in.  or  2 ft.  10.  in.  This 
subtle  diminution  of  the  bases  is  in  order  to  prevent  the  eye 
from  feeling  the  greater  narrowness  of  the  shafts  in  that  part 
of  the  nave,  their  average  circumference  being  6 ft.  10  in.  ; 


ST8 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


and  one,  tlie  second  on  the  north  side,  reaching  7 feet,  while 
those  at  the  upper  end  of  the  nave  vary  from  6 ft.  8 in.  to  6 ft. 
4 in.  It  is  probable  that  this  diminution  in  the  more  distant 
pillars  adds  slightly  to  the  perspective  effect  of  length  in  the 
body  of  the  church,  as  it  is  seen  from  the  great. entrance  : but 
whether  this  was  the  intention  or  not,  the  delicate  adaptation  of 
this  diminished  base  to  the  diminished  shaft  is  a piece  of  fas- 
tidiousness in  proportion  which  I rejoice  in  having  detected  ; 
and  this  the  more,  because  the  rude  contours  of  the  bases  them- 
selves would  little  induce  the  spectator  to  anticipate  any  such 
refinement. 

4.  DATE  OF  THE  DUOMO  OF  TOECELLO. 

The  first  flight  to  the  lagoons  for  shelter  was  caused  by  the 
invasion  of  Attila  in  the  fifth  century,  so  that  in  endeavoring 
to  throw  back  the  thought  of  the  reader  to  the  former  solitude 
of  the  islands,  I spoke  of  them  as  they  must  have  appeared 
“1300  years  ago.”  Altinum,  however,  was  not  finally  de- 
stroyed till  the  Lombard  invasion  in  641,  when  the  episcopal 
seat  was  removed  to  Torcello,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  main- 
land city,  giving  up  all  hope  of  returning  to  their  former 
homes,  built  their  Duomo  there.  It  is  a disputed  point  among 
Venetian  antiquarians,  whether  the  present  church  be  that 
wdiich  was  built  in  the  seventh  century,  partially  restored  in 
1008,  or  whether  the  words  of  Sagornino,  “ ecclesiam  jam 
vestustate  consumptam  recreare,”  justify  them  in  assuming 
an  entire  rebuilding  of  the  fabric.  I quite  agree  with  the 
Marchese  Selvatico,  in  believing  the  present  church  to  be  the 
earlier  building,  variously  strengthened,  refitted,  and  modified 
by  subsequent  care  ; but,  in  all  its  main  features,  preserving 
its  original  aspect,  except,  perhaps,  in  the  case  of  the  pulpit 
and  chancel  screen,  which,  if  the  Chevalier  Bunsen’s  conclu- 
sions respecting  early  pulpits  in  the  Boman  basilicas  be  cor- 
rect (see  the  next  article  of  this  Appendix),  may  possibly  have 
been  placed  in  their  present  position  in  the  tenth  century, 
and  the  fragmentary  character  of  the  workmanship  of  the 
latter,  noticed  in  §§  x.  and  xi.,  would  in  that  case  have  been 
the  result  of  innovation,  rather  than  of  haste.  The  question, 


APPENDIX. 


379 


however,  whether  they  are  of  the  seventh  or  eleventh  century, 
does  not  in  the  least  affect  our  conclusions,  drawn  from  the 
design  of  these  portions  of  the  church,  respecting  pulpits  in 
generaL 

5.  MODERN  PULPITS. 

There  is  no  character  of  an  ordinary  modern  English  church 
which  appears  to  me  more  to  be  regretted  than  the  peculiar 
pompousness  of  the  furniture  of  the  pulpits,  contrasted,  as  it 
generally  is,  with  great  meagreness  and  absence  of  color  in 
the  other  portions  of  the  church  ; a pompousness,  besides,  al- 
together without  grace  or  meaning,  and  dependent  merely  on 
certain  applications  of  upholstery  ; which,  curiously  enough, 
are  always  in  worse  taste  than  even  those  of  our  drawing- 
rooms. Nor  do  I understand  how  our  congregations  can  en- 
dure the  aspect  of  the  wooden  sounding-board  attached  only 
by  one  point  of  its  circumference  to  an  upright  pillar  behind 
the  preacher  ; and  looking  as  if  the  weight  of  its  enormous 
leverage  must  infallibly,  before  the  sermon  is  concluded,  tear 
it  from  its  support,  and  bring  it  down  upon  the  preacher’s 
head.  These  errors  in  taste  and  feeling  will  however,  I believe, 
be  gradually  amended  as  more  Gothic  churches  are  built ; but 
the  question  of  the  position  of  the  pulpit  presents  a more  dis- 
putable ground  of  discussion.  I can  perfectly  sympathise  with 
the  feeling  of  those  who  wish  the  eastern  extremity  of  the 
church  to  form  a kind  of  holy  place  for  the  communion  table  ; 
nor  have  I often  received  a more  painful  impression  than  on 
seeing  the  preacher  at  the  Scotch  church  in  George  Street, 
Portman  Square,  taking  possession  of  a perfect  apse  ; and 
occupying  therein,  during  the  coui'se  of  the  service,  very 
nearly  the  same  position  which  the  figure  of  Christ  does  in 
that  of  the  Cathedral  of  Pisa.  But  I nevertheless  believe  that 
the  Scotch  congregation  are  perfectly  right,  and  have  restored 
the  real  arrangement  of  the  primitive  churches.  The  Cheva- 
lier Bunsen  informed  me  very  lately,  that,  in  all  the  early 
basilicas  he  has  examined,  the  lateral  pulpits  are  of  more  re- 
cent date  than  the  rest  of  the  building  ; that  he  knows  of 
none  placed  in  the  position  which  they  now  occupy,  both  in 


380 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  basilicas  and  Gothic  cathedrals,  before  the  ninth  cem 
tury  ; and  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  bishop  always 
preached  or  exhorted,  in  the  primitive  times,  from  his  throne 
in  the  centre  of  the  apse,  the  altar  being  always  set  at  the 
centre  of  the  church,  in  the  crossing  of  the  transepts.  His 
Excellency  found  by  experiment  in  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  the 
largest  of  the  Roman  basilicas,  that  the  voice  could  be  heard 
more  plainly  from  the  centre  of  the  apse  than  from  any  other 
spot  in  the  whole  church  ; and,  if  this  be  so,  it  will  be  another 
very  important  reason  for  the  adoption  of  the  Romanesque 
(or  Norman)  architecture  in  our  churches,  rather  than  of  the 
Gothic.  The  reader  will  find  some  farther  notice  of  this  ques- 
tion in  the  concluding  chapter  of  the  third  volume. 

Before  leaving  this  subject,  however,  I must  be  permitted  to 
say  one  word  to  those  members  of  the  Scotch  Church  who  are 
severe  in  their  requirement  of  the  nominal  or  apparent  extem- 
porization of  all  addresses  delivered  from  the  pulpit.  Whether 
they  do  right  in  giving  those  among  their  ministers  who  cannot 
preach  extempore,  the  additional  and  useless  labor  of  commit- 
ting their  sermons  to  memory,  may  be  a disputed  question  ; 
but  it  can  hardly  be  so,  that  the  now  not  unfrequent  habit  of 
making  a desk  of  the  Bible,  and  reading  the  sermon  stealthily, 
by  slipping  the  sheets  of  it  between  the  sacred  leaves,  so  that 
the  preacher  consults  his  own  notes  on  pretence  of  consulting 
the  Scriptures,  is  a very  unseemly  consequence  of  their  over- 
strictness. 

6.  APSE  OF  MURANO. 

The  following  passage  succeeded  in  the  original  text  to  § xv. 
of  Chap.  III.  Finding  it  not  likely  to  interest  the  general 
reader,  I have  placed  it  here,  as  it  contains  matter  of  some  in- 
terest to  architects. 

“ On  this  plinth,  thus  carefully  studied  in  relations  of  mag- 
nitude, the  shafts  are  set  at  the  angles,  as  close  to  each  other  as 
possible,  as  seen  in  the  ground-plan.  These  shafts  are  founded 
on  pure  Roman  tradition  ; their  bases  have  no  spurs,  and  the 
shaft  itself  is  tapered  in  a bold  curve,  according  to  the  classical 


APPENDIX. 


381 


model.  But,  in  the  adjustment  of  the  bases  to  each  other,  we 
have  a most  curious  instance  of  the  first  beginning  of  the  Gothic 
principle  of  aggregation  of  shafts.  They  have  a singularly 
archaic  and  simple  profile,  composed  of  a single  cavetto  and 
roll,  which  are  circular,  on  a square  plinth.  Now  when  these 
bases  are  brought  close  to  each  other  at  the  angles  of  the  apse, 
their  natural  position  would  be  as  in  fig.  3,  Plate  I.,  leaving  an 
awkward  fissure  between  the  two  square  plinths.  This  offend- 
ed the  architect’s  eye  ; so  he  cut  part  of  each  of  the  bases 
away,  and  fitted  them  close  to  each  other,  as  in  fig.  5,  Plate  L, 
which  is  their  actual  position.  As  before  this  piece  of  rough 
harmonization  the  circular  mouldings  reached  the  sides  of  the 
squares,  they  were  necessarily  cut  partly  away  in  the  course  of 
the  adjustment,  and  run  into  each  other  as  in  the  figure,  so  as 
to  give  us  one  of  the  first  Venetian  instances  of  the  continuous 
Gothic  base. 

“ The  shafts  measure  on  the  average  2 ft.  8|  in.  in  circum- 
ference, at  the  base,  tapering  so  much  that  under  the  lowest 
fillet  of  their  necks  they  measure  only  2 feet  round,  though 
tht?ir  height  is  only  5 ft.  6 in. , losing  thus  eight  inches  of  girth 
in  five  feet  and  a half  of  height.  They  are  delicately  curved 
all  the  way  up  ; and  are  2\  in.  apart  from  each  other  where 
they  are  nearest,  and  about  5 in.  at  the  necks  of  their  capitals.” 

7.  EARLY  VENETIAN  DRESS. 

Sansovino’s  account  of  the  changes  in  the  dress  of  the  Vene- 
tians is  brief,  masterly,  and  full  of  interest ; one  or  two  pas- 
sages are  deserving  of  careful  notice,  especially  the  introduc- 
tory sentence.  “For  the  Venetians  from  their  first  origin, 
having  made  it  their  aim  to  be  peaceful  and  religious,  and  to 
keep  on  an  equality  with  one  another,  that  equality  might  in- 
duce stability  and  concord  (as  disparity  produces  confusion 
and  ruin),  made  their  dress  a matter  of  conscience,  . . . ; 
and  our  ancestors,  observant  lovers  of  religion,  upon  which  all 
their  acts  were  founded,  and  desiring  that  their  young  men 
should  direct  themselves  to  virtue,  the  true  soul  of  all  human 
action,  and  above  all  to  peace , invented  a dress  conformable  to 


382 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


their  gravity,  such,  that  in  clothing  themselves  with  it,  they 
might  clothe  themselves  also  with  modesty  and  honor.  And 
because  their  mind  was  bent  upon  giving  no  offence  to  any 
one,  and  living  quietly  as  far  as  might  be  permitted  them,  it 
seemed  good  to  them  to  show  to  every  one,  even  by  external 
signs,  this  their  endeavor,  by  wearing  a long  dress,  which  was 
in  no  wise  convenient  for  persons  of  a quick  temperament,  or 
of  eager  and  fierce  spirits.” 

Respecting  the  color  of  the  women’s  dress,  it  is  noticeable 
that  blue  is  called  “ Venetian  color”  by  Cassiodorus,  translated 
“ turchino”  by  Filiasi,  vol.  v.  chap.  iv.  It  was  a very  pale 
blue,  as  the  place  in  which  the  word  occurs  is  the  description 
by  Cassiodorus  of  the  darkness  which  came  over  the  sun’s  disk 
at  the  time  of  the  Belisarian  wars  and  desolation  of  the  Gothic 
kingdom. 

8.  INSCRIPTIONS  AT  MURANO. 

There  are  two  other  inscriptions  on  the  border  of  the  con- 
cha ; but  these,  being  written  on  the  soffit  of  the  face  arch, 
which,  as  before  noticed,  is  supported  by  the  last  two  shafts 
of  the  chancel,  could  not  be  read  by  the  congregation,  and  only 
with  difficulty  by  those  immediately  underneath  them.  One 
of  them  is  in  black,  the  other  in  red  letters.  The  first : 

“ Mutat  quod  sumsit,  quod  sollat  crimina  tandit 
Et  quod  sumpsit,  vultus  vestisq.  refulsit.” 

The  second  : 

“Diseipuli  testes,  prophete  certa  videntes 
Et  cernunt  purum,  sibi  credunt  ese  futurum.” 

I have  found  no  notice  of  any  of  these  inscriptions  in  any  Ital- 
ian account  of  the  church  of  Murano,  and  have  seldom  seen 
even  Monkish  Latin  less  intelligible.  There  is  no  mistake  in 
the  letters,  which  are  all  large  and  clear ; but  wrong  letters 
may  have  been  introduced  by  ignorant  restorers,  as  has  often 
happened  in  St.  Mark’s. 


APPENDIX. 


383 


9.  SHAFTS  OF  ST.  MARK. 

The  principal  pillars  which  carry  the  nave  and  transepts, 
fourteen  in  number,  are  of  white  alabaster  veined  wTith  grey 
and  amber  ; each  of  a single  block,  15  ft.  high,  and  6 ft.  2 in. 
round  at  the  base.  I in  vain  endeavored  to  ascertain  their 
probable  value.  Every  sculptor  whom  I questioned  on  this 
subject  told  me  there  were  no  such  pieces  of  alabaster  in  the 
market,  and  that  they  were  to  be  considered  as  without  price. 

On  the  fa£ade  of  the  church  alone  are  two  great  ranges  of 
shafts,  seventy-two  in  the  lower  range,  and  seventy-nine  in  the 
upper  ; all  of  porphyry,  alabaster,  and  verd-antique  or  fine 
marble ; the  lower  about  9 ft.,  the  upper  about  7 ft.  high,  and 
of  various  circumferences,  from  4 ft.  6 in.  to  2 ft.  round. 

There  are  now  so  many  published  engravings,  and,  far  better 
than  engravings,  calotypes,  of  this  fa£ade,  that  I may  point 
out  one  or  two  circumstances  for  the  reader’s  consideration 
without  giving  any  plate  of  it  here.  And  first,  we  ought  to 
note  the  relations  of  the  shafts  and  wall,  the  latter  being  first 
sheeted  with  alabaster,  and  then  the  pillars  set  within  two  or 
three  inches  of  it,  forming  such  a grove  of  golden  marble  that 
the  porches  open  before  us  as  we  enter  the  church  like  glades 
in  a deep  forest.  The  reader  may  perhaps  at  first  question 
the  propriety  of  placing  the  wrall  so  close  behind  the  shafts 
that  the  latter  have  nearly  as  little  work  to  do  as  the  statues 
in  a Gothic  porch  ; but  the  philosophy  of  this  arrangement  is 
briefly  deducible  from  the  principles  stated  in  the  text.  The 
builder  had  at  his  disposal  shafts  of  a certain  size  only,  not  fit 
to  sustain  the  whole  weight  of  the  fabric  above.  He  therefore 
turns  just  as  much  of  the  wall  veil  into  shaft  as  he  has  strength 
of  marble  at  his  disposal,  and  leaves  the  rest  in  its  massive 
form.  And  that  there  may  be  no  dishonesty  in  this,  nor  any 
appearance  in  the  shafts  of  doing  more  w'ork  than  is  really 
allotted  to  them,  many  are  left  visibly  with  half  their  capitals 
projecting  beyond  the  archi volts  they  sustain,  showing  that  the 
wall  is  very  slightly  dependent  on  their  co-operation,  and  that 
many  of  them  are  little  more  than  mere  bonds  or  connecting 
rods  between  the  foundation  and  cornices.  If  any  architect 


384 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ventures  to  blame  such  an  arrangement,  let  him  look  at  our 
much  vaunted  early  English  piers  in  Salisbury  Cathedral  or 
Westminster  Abbey,  where  the  small  satellitic  shafts  are  intro- 
duced in  the  same  gratuitous  manner,  but  with  far  less  excuse 
or  reason : for  those  small  shafts  have  nothing  but  their  delicacy 
and  purely  theoretical  connection  with  the  archivolt  mould- 
ings to  recommend  them  ; but  the  St.  Mark’s  shafts  have  an  in- 
trinsic beauty  and  value  of  the  highest  order,  and  the  object 
of  the  whole  system  of  architecture,  as  above  stated,  is  in  great 
part  to  set  forth  the  beauty  and  value  of  the  shaft  itself. 
Now,  not  only  is  this  accomplished  by  withdrawing  it  occa- 
sionally from  servile  work,  but  the  position  here  given  to  it, 
within  three  or  four  inches  of  a wall  from  which  it  neverthe- 
less stands  perfectly  clear  all  the  way  up,  is  exactly  that  which 
must  best  display  its  color  and  quality.  When  there  is  much 
vacant  space  left  behind  a pillar,  the  shade  against  which  it  is 
relieved  is  comparatively  indefinite,  the  eye  passes  by  the 
shaft,  and  penetrates  into  the  vacancy.  But  when  a broad 
surface  of  wall  is  brought  near  the  shaft,  its  own  shadow  is, 
in  almost  every  effect  of  sunshine,  so  sharp  and  dark  as  to 
throw  out  its  colors  with  the  highest  possible  brilliancy  ; if 
there  be  no  sunshine,  the  wall  veil  is  subdued  and  varied  by 
the  most  subtle  gradations  of  delicate  half  shadow,  hardly  less 
advantageous  to  the  shaft  which  it  relieves.  And,  as  far  as 
regards  pure  effect  in  open  air  (all  artifice  of  excessive  dark- 
ness or  mystery  being  excluded),  I do  not  know  anything 
whatsoever  in  the  whole  compass  of  the  European  architecture 
I have  seen,  which  can  for  a moment  be  compared  with  the 
quaint  shade  and  delicate  color,  like  that  of  Rembrandt  and 
Paul  Veronese  united,  which  the  sun  brings  out,  as  his  rays 
move  from  porch  to  porch  along  the  St.  Mark’s  fayade. 

And,  as  if  to  prove  that  this  was  indeed  the  builder’s  inten- 
tion, and  that  he  did  not  leave  his  shafts  idle  merely  because 
he  did  not  know  how  to  set  them  to  work  safely,  there  are 
two  pieces  of  masonry  at  the  extremities  of  the  fa£ade,  which 
are  just  as  remarkable  for  their  frank  trust  in  the  bearing 
power  of  the  shafts  as  the  rest  are  for  their  want  of  confidence 
in  them.  But,  before  we  come  to  these,  we  must  say  a word 


APPENDIX, 


385 


or  two  respecting  the  second  point  named  above,  the  superior 
position  of  the  shafts. 

It  was  assuredly  not  in  the  builder’s  power,  even  had  he  been 
so  inclined,  to  obtain  shafts  high  enough  to  sustain  the  whole 
external  gallery,  as  it  is  sustained  in  the  nave,  on  one  arcade. 
He  had,  as  above  noticed,  a supply  of  shafts  of  every  sort  and 
size,  from  which  he  chose  the  largest  for  his  nave  shafts  ; the 
smallest  were  set  aside  for  windows,  jambs,  balustrades,  sup- 
ports of  pulpits,  niches,  and  such  other  services,  every  con- 
ceivable size  occurring  in  different  portions  of  the  building ; 
and  the  middle-sized  shafts  were  sorted  into  two  classes,  of 
which  on  the  average  one  was  about  two- thirds  the  length  of 
the  other,  and  out  of  these  the  two  stories  of  the*fa9ade  and 
sides  of  the  church  are  composed,  the  smaller  shafts  of  course 
uppermost,  and  more  numerous  than  the  lower,  according  to 
the  ordinary  laws  of  superimposition  adopted  by  all  the 
Eomanesque  builders,  and  observed  also  in  a kind  of  archi- 
tecture quite  as  beautiful  as  any  we  are  likely  to  invent,  that 
of  forest  trees. 

Nothing  is  more  singular  than  the  way  in  which  this  kind 
of  superimposition  (the  only  right  one  in  the  case  of  shafts) 
will  shock  a professed  architect.  He  has  been  accustomed  to 
see,  in  the  Kenaissance  designs,  shaft  put  on  the  top  of  shaft, 
three  or  four  times  over,  and  he  thinks  this  quite  right ; but 
the  moment  he  is  showm  a properly  subdivided  superimposi- 
tion, in  which  the  upper  shafts  diminish  in  size  and  multiply 
in  number,  so  that  the  lower  pillars  would  balance  them  safely 
even  without  cement,  he  exclaims  that  it  is  “ against  law,” 
as  if  he  had  never  seen  a tree  in  his  life. 

Not  that  the  idea  of  the  Byzantine  superimposition  was 
taken  from  trees,  any  more  than  that  of  Gothic  arches.  Both 
are  simple  compliances  wTith  laws  of  nature,  and,  therefore, 
approximations  to  the  forms  of  nature. 

There  is,  however,  one  very  essential  difference  between 
tree  structure  and  the  shaft  structure  in  question  ; namely, 
that  the  marble  branches,  having  no  vital  connection  with  the 
stem,  must  be  provided  with  a firm  tablet  or  second  founda- 
tion whereon  to  stand.  This  intermediate  plinth  or  tablet 
Vol.  II.— 25 


386 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


runs  along  the  whole  fa$ade  at  one  level,  is  about  eighteen 
inches  thick,  and  left  with  little  decoration  as  being  meant 
for  hard  service.  The  small  porticos,  already  spoken  of  as 
the  most  graceful  pieces  of  composition  with  which  I am  ac- 
quainted, are  sustained  on  detached  clusters  of  four  or  five 
columns,  forming  the  continuation  of  those  of  the  upper  se- 
ries, and  each  of  these  clusters  is  balanced  on  one  grand  de- 
tached shaft ; as  much  trust  being  thus  placed  in  the  pillars 
here,  as  is  withdrawn  from  them  elsewhere.  The  northern 
portico  has  only  one  detached  pillar  at  its  outer  angle,  which 
sustains  three  shafts  and  a square  pilaster  ; of  these  shafts 
the  one  at  the  outer  angle  of  the  group  is  the  thickest  (so  as 
to  balance  the  pilaster  on  the  inner  angle),  measuring  3 ft.  2 
in.  round,  while  the  others  measure  only  2 ft.  10  in.  and  2 ft. 
11  in.  ; and  in  order  to  make  this  increase  of  diameter,  and 
the  importance  of  the  shaft,  more  manifest  to  the  eye,  the  old 
builders  made  the  shaft  shorter  as  well  as  thicker,  increasing 
the  depth  both  of  its  capital  and  the  base,  with  what  is  to  the 
thoughtless  spectator  ridiculous  incongruity,  and  to  the  ob- 
servant one  a most  beautiful  expression  of  constructive  genius. 
Nor  is  this  all.  Observe  : the  whole  strength  of  this  angle 
depends  on  accuracy  of  poise,  not  on  breadth  or  strength  of 
foundation.  It  is  a balanced,  not  a propped  structure  : if  the 
balance  fails,  it  must  fall  instantly  ; if  the  balance  is  main- 
tained, no  matter  how  the  lower  shaft  is  fastened  into  the 
ground,  all  will  be  safe.  And  to  mark  this  more  definitely, 
the  great  lower  shaft  has  a different  base  from  all  the  others  of 
the  facade,  remarkably  high  in  proportion  to  the  shaft,  on  a 
circular  instead  of  a square  plinth,  and  without  spurs,  while 
all  the  other  bases  have  spurs  without  exception.  Glance 
back  at  what  is  said  of  the  spurs  at  p.  80  of  the  first  volume3 
and  reflect  that  all  expression  of  grasp  in  the  foot  of  the  pillar 
is  here  useless,  and  to  be  replaced  by  one  of  balance  merely, 
and  you  will  feel  what  the  old  builder  wanted  to  say  to  us, 
and  how  much  he  desired  us  to  follow  him  with  our  under- 
standing as  he  laid  stone  above  stone. 

And  this  purpose  of  his  is  hinted  to  us  once  more,  even 
by  the  position  of  this  base  in  the  ground  plan  of  the  foun- 


APPENDIX. 


387 


dation  of  the  portico  ; for,  though  itself  circular,  it  sustains 
a hexagonal  plinth  set  obliquely  to  the  vjalls  of  the  church , 
as  if  expressly  to  mark  to  us  that  it  did  not  matter  how 
the  base  was  set,  so  only  that  the  weights  were  justly  dis- 
posed above  it. 

10.  PROPER  SENSE  OF  THE  WORD  IDOLATRY. 

I do  not  intend,  in  thus  applying  the  word  “ Idolatry  ” to 
certain  ceremonies  of  Romanist  worship,  to  admit  the  pro- 
priety of  the  ordinary  Protestant  manner  of  regarding  those 
ceremonies  as  distinctively  idolatrous,  and  as  separating  the 
Romanist  from  the  Protestant  Church  by  a gulf  across  which 
we  must  not  look  to  our  fellow-Christians  but  with  utter  repro- 
bation and  disdain.  The  Church  of  Rome  does  indeed  distinct- 
ively violate  the  second  commandment ; but  the  true  force 
and  weight  of  the  sin  of  idolatry  are  in  the  violation  of  the 
first,  of  which  we  are  all  of  us  guilty,  in  probably  a very  equal 
degree,  considered  only  as  members  of  this  or  that  commun- 
ion, and  not  as  Christians  or  unbelievers.  Idolatry  is,  both 
literally  and  verily,  not  the  mere  bowing  down  before  sculpt- 
ures, but  the  serving  or  becoming  the  slave  of  any  images  or 
imaginations  which  stand  between  us  and  God,  and  it  is  other- 
wise expressed  in  Scripture  as  “ walking  after  the  Imagina- 
tion ” of  our  own  hearts.  And  observe  also  that  while,  at 
least  on  one  occasion,  we  find  in  the  Bible  an  indulgence 
granted  to  the  mere  external  and  literal  violation  of  the  second 
commandment,  “ When  I bow  myself  in  the  house  of  Rimmon, 
the  Lord  pardon  thy  servant  in  this  thing,”  we  find  no  indul- 
gence in  any  instance,  or  in  the  slightest  degree,  granted  to 
“ covetousness,  which  is  idolatry  ” (Col.  iii.  5 ; no  casual  asso- 
ciation of  terms,  observe,  but  again  energetically  repeated  in 
Ephesians,  v.  5,  “No  covetous  man,  wLo  is  an  idolater,  hath 
any  inheritance  in  the  kingdom  of  Christ  ”)  ; nor  any  to  that 
denial  of  God,  idolatry  in  one  of  its  most  subtle  forms,  fol- 
lowing so  often  on  the  possession  of  that  wealth  against  which 
Agur  prayed  so  earnestly,  “ Give  me  neither  poverty  nor 


388 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE , 


riches,  lest  I be  full  and  deny  thee,  and  say,  ‘ Who  is  the 
Lord?’” 

And  in  this  sense,  which  of  us  is  not  an  idolater  ? Which 
of  us  has  the  right,  in  the  fulness  of  that  better  knowledge,  in 
spite  of  which  he  nevertheless  is  not  yet  separated  from  the 
service  of  this  world,  to  speak  scornfully  of  any  of  his  brethren, 
because,  in  a guiltless  ignorance,  they  have  been  accustomed 
to  bow  their  knees  before  a statue  ? Which  of  us  shall  say 
that  there  may  not  be  a spiritual  worship  in  their  apparent 
idolatry,  or  that  there  is  not  a spiritual  idolatry  in  our  own 
apparent  worship  ? 

For  indeed  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  one  man  to  judge  of 
the  feeling  with  which  another  bows  down  before  an  image. 
From  that  pure  reverence  in  which  Sir  Thomas  Brown  wrote, 
“ I can  dispense  with  my  hat  at  the  sight  of  a cross,  but  not 
with  a thought  of  my  Redeemer,”  to  the  worst  superstition  of 
the  most  ignorant  Romanist,  there  is  an  infinite  series  of 
subtle  transitions  ; and  the  point  where  simple  reverence  and 
the  use  of  the  image  merely  to  render  conception  more  vivid, 
and  feeling  more  intense,  change  into  definite  idolatry  by  the 
attribution  of  Power  to  the  image  itself,  is  so  difficultly  deter- 
minable that  we  cannot  be  too  cautious  in  asserting  that  such 
a change  has  actually  taken  place  in  the  case  of  any  individual. 
Even  when  it  is  definite  and  certain,  we  shall  oftener  find  it 
the  consequence  of  dulness  of  intellect  than  of  real  alienation 
of  heart  from  God  ; and  I have  no  manner  of  doubt  that  half 
of  the  poor  and  untaught  Christians  who  are  this  day  lying 
prostrate  before  crucifixes,  Bambinos,  and  Yolto  Santos,  are 
finding  more  acceptance  with  God,  than  many  Protestants  who 
idolize  nothing  but  their  owrn  opinions  or  their  own  interests. 
I believe  that  those  wTho  have  worshipped  the  thorns  of  Christ’s 
crown  will  be  found  at  last  to  have  been  holier  and  wiser  than 
those  who  worship  the  thorns  of  the  world’s  service,  and  that 
to  adore  the  nails  of  the  cross  is  a less  sin  than  to  adore  the 
hammer  of  the  workman. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  though  the  idolatry  of  the  lower 
orders  in  the  Romish  Church  may  thus  be  frequently  excus- 
able, the  ordinary  subterfuges  by  which -it  is  defended  are  not 


APPENDIX. 


3S9 


so.  It  may  be  extenuated,  but  cannot  be  denied  ; and  the 
attribution  of  power  to  the  image,*  in  which  it  consists,  is 
not  merely  a form  of  popular  feeling,  but  a tenet  of  priestly 
instruction,  and  may  be  proved,  over  and  over  again,  from  any 
book  of  the  Eomish  Church  services.  Take  for  instance  the 
following  prayer,  which  occurs  continually  at  the  close  of  the 
service  of  the  Holy  Cross  : 

“Saincte  vraye  Croye  aouree, 

Qui  du  corps  Dieu  fu  aourne'e 
Et  de  sa  sueur  arrousee, 

Et  de  son  sane  enluminee, 

Par  ta  vertu,  par  ta  puissance, 

Defent  mon  corps  de  meschance, 

Et  montroie  moy  par  ton  playsir 
Que  vray  confes  puisse  rnourir.” 

“Oh  holy,  true,  and  golden  Cross,  which  wast  adorned  with  God’s 
body,  and  watered  with  His  sweat,  and  illuminated  with  His 
blood,  by  thy  healing  virtue  and  thy  power,  defend  my  body 
from  mischance  ; and  by  thy  good  pleasure,  let  me  make-agood 
confessiofi  when  I die.” 

There  can  be  no  possible  defence  imagined  for  the  mere 
terms  in  which  this  prayer  and  other  such  are  couched  : yet 
it  is  always  to  be  remembered,  that  in  many  cases  they  are 
rather  poetical  effusions  than  serious  prayers  ; the  utterances 
of  imaginative  enthusiasm,  rather  than  of  reasonable  con- 
viction ; and  as  such,  they  are  rather  to  be  condemned  as 
illusory  and  fictitious,  than  as  idolatrous,  nor  even  as  such, 
condemned  altogether,  for  strong  love  and  faith  are  often  the 
roots  of  them  and  the  errors  of  affection  are  better  than  the 
accuracies  of  apathy.  But  the  unhappy  results,  among  all 
religious  sects,  of  the  habit  of  allowing  imaginative  and  poeti- 

* I do  not  like  to  bear  Protestants  speaking  with  gross  and  unchari- 
table contempt  even  of  the  worship  of  relics.  Elisha  once  trusted  his 
own  staff  too  far  ; nor  can  I see  any  reasonable  ground  for  the  scorn,  or 
the  unkind  rebuke,  of  those  who  have  been  taught  from  their  youth 
upwards  that  to  hope  even  in  the  hem  ot  the  garment  may  sometimes 
be  better  than  to  spend  the  living  on  physicians. 


390 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


cal  belief  to  take  the  place  of  deliberate,  resolute,  and  prosaic 
belief,  have  been  fully  and  admirably  traced  by  the  author  of 
the  “ Natural  History  of  Enthusiasm/’ 

11.  SITUATIONS  OF  BYZANTINE  PALACES. 

(1.)  The  Terraced  House. 

The  most  conspicuous  pile  in  the  midmost  reach  of  the 
Grand  Canal  is  the  Casa  Grimani,  now  the  Post-Office.  Let- 
ting his  boat  lie  by  the  steps  of  this  great  palace,  the  traveller 
will  see,  on  the  other  side  of  the  canal,  a building  with  a small 
terrace  in  front  of  it,  and  a little  court  with  a door  to  the 
water,  beside  the  terrace.  Half  of  the  house  is  visibly 
modern,  and  there  is  a great  seam,  like  the  edge  of  a scar, 
between  it  and  the  ancient  remnant,  in  which  the  circular 
bands  of  the  Byzantine  arches  will  be  instantly  recognized. 
This  building  not  having,  as  far  as  I know,  any  name  except 
that  pf  its  present  proprietor,  I shall  in  future  distinguish  it 
simply  as  the  Terraced  House. 

(2.)  Casa  Businello. 

To  the  left  of  this  edifice  (looking  from  the  Post-Office) 
there  is  a modern  palace,  on  the  other  side  of  which  the  By- 
zantine mouldings  appear  again  in  the  first  and  second  stories 
of  a house  lately  restored.  It  might  be  thought  that  the  shafts 
and  arches  had  been  raised  yesterday,  the  modern  walls  having 
been  deftly  adjusted  to  them,  and  all  appearance  of  antiquity, 
together  with  the  ornamentation  and  proportions  of  the  fabric, 
having  been  entirely  destroyed.  I cannot,  however,  speak 
with  unmixed  sorrow  of  these  changes,  since,  without  his  be- 
ing implicated  in  the  shame  of  them,  they  fitted  this  palace  to 
become  the  residence  of  the  kindest  friend  I had  in  Venice. 
It  is  generally  known  as  the  Casa  Businello. 

(3.)  The  Braided  House . 

Leaving  the  steps  of  the  Casa  Grimani,  and  turning  the 
gondola  away  from  the  Rialto,  we  will  pass  the  Casa  Businello, 


APPENDIX. 


391 


and  the  three  houses  which  succeed  it  on  the  right.  The 
fourth  is  another  restored  palace,  white  and  conspicuous,  but 
retaining  of  its  ancient  structure  only  the  five  windows  in  its 
second  story,  and  an  ornamental  moulding  above  them  which 
appears  to  be  ancient,  though  it  is  inaccessible  without  scaf- 
folding, and  I cannot  therefore  answer  for  it.  But  the  five 
central  windows  are  very  valuable  ; and  as  their  capitals  differ 
from  most  that  we  find  (except  in  St.  Mark’s),  in  their  plaited 
or  braided  border  and  basket- worked  sides,  I shall  call  this 
house,  in  future,  the  Braided  House.* 


(4.)  The  Madonnetta  House. 

On  the  other  side  of  this  palace  is  the  Traghetto  called 
ella  Madonnetta  ; ’ and  beyond  this  Traghetto,  still  facino- 
e Grand  Canal,  a small  palace,  of  which  the  front  shows 
mere  vestiges  of  arcades,  the  old  shafts  only  being  visible 
with  obscure  circular  seams  in  the  modern  plaster  which 
covers  he  arches.  The  side  of  it  is  a curious  agglomeration 
of  pointed  and  round  windows  in  every  possible  position,  and 
of  nearly  every  date  from  the  twelfth  to  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury It  is  the  smallest  of  the  buildings  we  have  to  examine 

7“  thf  IeaTst  interesting  : I shall  call  it,  from  the 
name  ol  its  Traghecto,  the  Madonnetta  House. 


(5.)  The  Rio  Foscari  House. 

We  must  now  descend  the  Grand  Canal  as  far  as  the  Palazzo 
oscaii,  and  enter  the  narrower  canal,  called  the  Bio  di  Ca’ 
Foscan,  at  the  side  of  that  palace.  Almost  immediately  after 

r way  of  the  Foscari  c°urtyard’ we  shai1 

see  on  oui  left,  in  the  ruinous  and  time-stricken  walls  which 
totter  over  the  water,  the  white  curve  of  a circular  arch  cov- 

J£?  I!:?1?™’  ^ fragmentS  °f  the  bases  of  smaU  Pil- 

have  alre ad  TT , 0118  of  Erba  della  Madonna  I 

Lt  21Ul  t f,  plates  which  accompanied  the  first 

hatet’Se' to^“T?!,ln,ildi,,8i  In  wbat  references  I 
House!  ’ Sha11  Speak  °f  * as  tlle  Ri0  foscari 

* Casa  Tiepolo  (?)  in  Lazari's  Guide. 


392 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


(6.)  Casa  Farsetti. 

We  have  now  to  reascend  the  Grand  Canal,  and  approach 
the  Eialto.  As  soon  as  we  have  passed  the  Casa  Grimani,  the 
traveller  will  recognize,  on  his  right,  two  rich  and  extensive 
masses  of  building,  which  form  important  objects  in  almost 
every  picturesque  view  of  the  noble  bridge.  Of  these,  the  first, 
that  farthest  from  the  Eialto,  retains  great  part  of  its  ancient 
materials  in  a dislocated  form.  It  has  been  entirely  modern- 
ized in  its  upper  stories,  but  the  ground  floor  and  first  floor 
have  nearly  all  their  original  shafts  and  capitals,  only  they  have 
been  shifted  hither  and  thither  to  give  room  for  the  introduc- 
tion of  various  small  apartments,  and  present,  in  consequence, 
marvellous  anomalies  in  proportion.  This  building  is  known 
in  Venice  as  the  Casa  Farsetti. 

(7.)  Casa  Loredan. 

The  one  next  to  it,  though  not  conspicuous,  and  often  passed 
with  neglect,  will,  I believe,  be  felt  at  last,  by  all  who  examine 
it  carefully,  to  be  the  most  beautiful  palace  in  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  the  Grand  Canal.  It  has  been  restored  often,  once  in 
the  Gothic,  once  in  the  Eenaissance  times, — some  writers  say, 
even  rebuilt ; but,  if  so,  rebuilt  in  its  old  form.  The  Gothic 
additions  harmonize  exquisitely  with  its  Byzantine  work,  and 
it  is  easy,  as  we  examine  its  lovely  central  arcade,  to  forget 
the  Eenaissance  additions  which  encumber  it  above.  It  is 
known  as  the  Casa-  Loredan. 

The  eighth  palace  is  the  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  described  in 
the  text  A ninth  existed,  more  interesting  apparently  than 
any  of  these,  near  the  Church  of  San  Moise,  but  it  was  thrown 
down  in  the  course  of  “ improvements  ” a few  years  ago.  A 
woodcut  of  it  is  given  in  M.  Lazari’s  Guide. 

12.  MODERN  PAINTING  ON  GLASS. 

Of  all  the  various  principles  of  art  which,  in  modern  days, 
we  have  defied  or  forgotten,  none  are  more  indisputable,  and 
few  of  more  practical  importance  than  this,  which  I shall  have 


APPENDIX . 


393 


occasion  again  and  again  to  allege  in  support  of  many  future 
deductions  : 

“All  art,  working  with  given  materials,  must  propose  to 
itself  the  objects  which,  with  those  materials,  are  most  per- 
fectly attainable  ; and  becomes  illegitimate  and  debased  if  it 
propose  to  itself  any  other  objects,  better  attainable  with  other 
materials.  ” 

Thus,  great  slenderness,  lightness,  or  intricacy  of  structure, 
— as  in  ramifications  of  trees,  detached  folds  of  drapery,  or 
wreaths  of  hair, — is  easily  and  perfectly  expressible  in  metal- 
work or  in  painting,  but  only  with  great  difficulty  and  imper- 
fectly expressible  in  sculpture.  All  sculpture,  therefore,  which 
professes  as  its  chief  end  the  expression  of  such  characters,  is 
debased  ; and  if  the  suggestion  of  them  be  accidentally  re- 
quired of  it,  that  suggestion  is  only  to  be  given  to  an  extent 
compatible  with  perfect  ease  of  execution  in  the  given  material, 
not  to  the  utmost  possible  extent.  For  instance  : some  of  the 
most  delightful  drawings  of  our  own  water-color  painter,  Hunt, 
Lave  been  of  birds’  nests  ; of  which,  in  painting,  it  is  perfectly 
possible  to  represent  the  intricate  fibrous  or  mossy  structure  ; 
therefore,  the  effort  is  a legitimate  one,  and  the  art  is  well 
employed.  But  to  carve  a bird’s  nest  out  of  marble  would  be 
physically  impossible,  and  to  reach  any  approximate  expres- 
sion of  its  structure  would  require  prolonged  and  intolerable 
labor.  Therefore,  all  sculpture  which  set  itself  to  carving  birds’ 
nests  as  an  end,  or  which,  if  a bird’s  nest  were  required  of  it, 
carved  it  to  the  utmost  possible  point  of  realization,  would  be 
debased.  Nothing  but  the  general  form,  and  as  much  of  the 
fibrous  structure  as  could  be  writh  perfect  ease  represented, 
ought  to  be  attempted  at  all. 

But  more  than  this.  The  workman  has  not  done  his  duty, 
and  is  not  working  on  safe  principles,  unless  he  even  so  far 
honors  the  materials  with  which  he  is  working  as  to  set  himself 
to  bring  out  their  beauty,  and  to  recommend  and  exalt,  as  far 
as  he  can,  their  peculiar  qualities.  If  he  is  working  in  marble, 
he  should  insist  upon  and  exhibit  its  transparency  and  solidity ; 
if  in  iron,  its  strength  and  tenacity  ; if  in  gold,  its  ductility ; 
and  he  will  invariably  find  the  material  grateful,  and  that  his 


394 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


work  is  all  the  nobler  for  being  eulogistic  of  the  substance  ol 
which  it  is  made.  But  of  all  the  arts,  the  working  of  glass  is 
that  in  which  we  ought  to  keep  these  principles  most  vigor- 
ously in  mind.  For  we  owe  it  so  much,  and  the  possession 
of  it  is  so  great  a blessing,  that  all  our  work  in  it  should  be 
completely  and  forcibly  expressive  of  the  peculiar  characters 
which  give  it  so  vast  a value. 

These  are  two,  namely,  its  ductility  when  heated,  and 
transparency  when  cold,  both  nearly  perfect.  In  its  employ- 
ment for  vessels,  we  ought  always  to  exhibit  its  ductility,  and 
in  its  employment  for  windows,  its  transparency.  All  work 
in  glass  is  bad  which  does  not,  with  loud  voice,  proclaim  one 
or  other  of  these  great  qualities. 

Consequently,  all  cut  glass  is  barbarous  : for  the  cutting 
conceals  its  ductility,  and  confuses  it  with  crystal.  Also,  all 
very  neat,  finished,  and  perfect  form  in  glass  is  barbarous  : for 
this  fails  in  proclaiming  another  of  its  great  virtues  ; namely, 
the  ease  with  which  its  light  substance  can  be  moulded  or 
blown  into  any  form,  so  long  as  perfect  accuracy  be  not  re- 
quired. In  metal,  which,  even  when  heated  enough  to  be 
thoroughly  malleable,  retains  yet  such  weight  and  consistency 
as  render  it  susceptible  of  the  finest  handling  and  retention 
of  the  most  delicate  form,  great  precision  of  workmanship  is 
admissible  ; but  in  glass,  which  when  once  softened  must  be 
blown  or  moulded,  not  hammered,  and  which  is  liable  to  lose, 
by  contraction  or  subsidence,  the  fineness  of  the  forms  given 
to  it,  no  delicate  outlines  are  to  be  attempted,  but  only  such 
fantastic  and  fickle  grace  as  the  mind  of  the  workman  can  con- 
ceive and  execute  on  the  instant.  The  more  wild,  extravagant, 
and  grotesque  in  their  gracefulness  the  forms  are,  the  better. 
No  material  is  so  adapted  for  giving  full  play  to  the  imagina- 
tion, but  it  must  not  be  wrought  with  refinement  or  painful- 
ness, still  less  with  costliness.  For  as  in  gratitude  we  are  to 
proclaim  its  virtues,  so  in  all  honesty  we  are  to  confess  its  im- 
perfections ; and  while  we  triumphantly  set  forth  its  trans- 
parency, we  are  also  frankly  to  admit  its  fragility,  and  there- 
fore not  to  waste  much  time  upon  it,  nor  put  any  real  art  into 
it  when  intended  for  daily  use.  No  workman  ought  ever 


APPENDIX. 


395 


to  spend  more  than  an  hour  in  the  making  of  any  glass  ves- 
sel. 

Next  in  the  case  of  windows,  the  points  which  we  have  to 
insist  upon  are,  the  transparency  of  the  glass  and  its  suscepti- 
bility of  the  most  brilliant  colors  ; and  therefore  the  attempt  to 
turn  painted  windows  into  pretty  pictures  is  one  of  the  most 
gross  and  ridiculous  barbarisms  of  this  pre-eminently  bar- 
barous century.  It  originated,  I suppose,  with  the  Germane, 
who  seem  for  the  present  distinguished  among  European 
nations  by  the  loss  of  the  sense  of  color  ; but  it  appears  of  late 
to  have  considerable  chance  of . establishing  itself  in  England: 
and  it  is  a two-edged  error,  striking  in  two  directions  ; first 
at  the  healthy  appreciation  of  painting,  and  then  at  the  healthy 
appreciation  of  glass.  Color,  ground  with  oil,  and  laid  on  a 
solid  opaque  ground,  furnishes  to  the  human  hand  the  most 
exquisite  means  of  expression  which  the  human  sight  and  in- 
vention can  find  or  require.  By  its  two  opposite  qualities, 
each  naturally  and  easily  attainable,  of  transparency  in  shadow 
and  opacity  in  light,  it  complies  with  the  conditions  of  nature  ; 
and  by  its  perfect  governableness  it  permits  the  utmost  pos- 
sible fulness  and  subtlety  in  the  harmonies  of  color,  as  well 
as  the  utmost  perfection  in  the  drawing.  Glass,  considered 
as  a material  for  a picture,  is  exactly  as  bad  as  oil  paint  is 
good.  It  sets  out  by  reversing  the  conditions  of  nature,  by 
making  the  lights  transparent  and  the  shadows  opaque  ; and 
the  ungovernableness  of  its  color  (changing  in  the  furnace), 
and  its  violence  (being  always  on  a high  key,  because  produced 
by  actual  light),  render  it  so  disadvantageous  in  every  way 
that  the  result  of  working  in  it  for  pictorial  effect  would  in- 
fallibly be  the  destruction  of  all  the  appreciation  of  the  noble 
qualities  of  pictorial  color. 

In  the  second  place,  this  modern  barbarism  destroys  the 
true  appreciation  of  the  qualities  of  glass.  It  denies,  and  en- 
deavors as  far  as  possible  to  conceal,  the  transparency,  which 
is  not  onty  its  great  virtue  in  a merely  utilitarian  point  of 
view,  but  its  great  spiritual  character  ; the  character  by  which 
in  church  architecture  it  becomes  most  touchingly  impressive, 
as  typical  of  the  entrance  of  the  Holy  Spirit  into  the  heart  of 


396 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


man  ; a typical  expression  rendered  specific  and  intense  by 
the  purity  and  brilliancy  of  its  sevenfold  hues  ; * and  therefore 
in  endeavoring  to  turn  the  window  into  a picture,  we  at  once 
lose  the  sanctity  and  power  of  the  noble  material,  and  employ 
it  to  an  end  which  is  utterly  impossible  it  should  ever  worthily 
attain.  The  true  perfection  of  a painted  window  is  to  be  se- 
rene, intense,  brilliant,  like  flaming  jewellery  ; full  of  easily 
legible  and  quaint  subjects,  and  exquisitely  subtle,  yet  simple, 
in  its  harmonies.  In  a word,  this  perfection  has  been  con- 
summated  in  the  designs,  never  to  be  surpassed,  if  ever  again 
to  be  approached  by  human  art,  of  the  French  windows  of 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries. 

* I do  not  think  that  there  is  anything  more  necessary  to  the  progress 
of  European  art  in  the  present  day  than  the  complete  understanding  of 
this  sanctity  of  Color.  I had  much  pleasure  in  finding  it,  the  other  day* 
fully  understood  and  thus  sweetly  expressed  in  a little  volume  of  poems 
by  a Miss  Maynard  : 

“ For  still  in  every  land,  though  to  Thy  name 
Arose  no  temple, — still  in  every  age, 

Though  heedless  man  had  quite  forgot  Thy  praise, 

We  praise  Thee  ; and  at  rise  and  set  of  sun 
Did  we  assemble  duly,  and  intone 
A choral  hymn  that  all  the  lands  might  hear. 

In  heaven,  on  earth,  and  in  the  deep  we  praised  Thee, 

Singly,  or  mingled  in  sweet  sisterhood. 

But  now,  acknowledged  ministrants,  we  come, 

Co-worsliippers  with  man  in  this  Thy  house, 

We,  the  Seven  Daughters  of  the  Light,  to  praise 
Thee,  Light  of  Light ! Thee,  God  of  very  God  ! ” 

A Dream  of  Fair  Colors. 

These  poems  seem  to  be  otherwise  remarkable  for  a very  unobtrusive 
and  pure  religious  feeling  in  subjects  connected  with  art. 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


THIRD,  OR  RENAISSANCE,  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  L 

EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 

§ i.  I trust  that  the  reader  has  been  enabled,  by  the  pre- 
ceding chapters,  to  form  some  conception  of  the  magnificence 
of  the  streets  of  Venice  during  the  course  of  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteenth  centuries.  Yet  by  all  this  magnificence  she 
was  not  supremely  distinguished  above  the  other  cities  of  the 
middle  ages.  Her  early  edifices  have  been  preserved  to  our 
times  by  the  circuit  of  her  waves  ; while  continual  recurrences 
of  ruin  have  defaced  the  glory  of  her  sister  cities.  But  such 
fragments  as  are  still  left  in  their  lonely  squares,  and  in  the 
corners  of  their  streets,  so  far  from  being  inferior  to  the 
buildings  of  Venice,  are  even  more  rich,  more  finished,  more 
admirable  in  invention,  more  exuberant  in  beauty.  And  al- 
though, in  the  North  of  Europe,  civilization  was  less  advanced, 
and  the  knowledge  of  the  arts  was  more  confined  to  the  eccle- 
siastical orders,  so  that,  for  domestic  architecture,  the  period 
of  perfection  must  be  there  placed  much  later  than  in  Xtafy, 
and  considered  as  extending  to  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century ; yet,  as  each  city  reached  a certain  point  in  civiliza- 
tion, its  streets  became  decorated  with  the  same  magnificence, 
varied  only  in  style  according  to  the  materials  at  hand,  and 
temper  of  the  people.  And  I am  not  aware  of  any  town  of 
wealth  and  importance  in  the  middle  ages,  in  which  some 
proof  does  not  exist,  that,  at  its  period  of  greatest  energy  and 


6 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 


prosperity,  its  streets  were  inwrought  with  rich  sculpture,  and 
even  (though  in  this,  as  before  noticed,  Venice  always  stood 
supreme)  glowing  with  color  and  with  gold.  Now,  therefore, 
let  the  reader, — forming  for  himself  as  vivid  and  real  a con- 
ception as  he  is  able,  either  of  a group  of  Venetian  palaces 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  or,  if  he  likes  better,  of  one  of  the 
more  fantastic  but  even  richer  street  scenes  of  Rouen,  Ant- 
werp, Cologne,  or  Nuremberg,  and  keeping  this  gorgeous 
image  before  him, — go  out  into  any  thoroughfare,  representa- 
tive, in  a general  and  characteristic  way,  of  the  feeling  for 
domestic  architecture  in  modern  times  ; let  him,  for  instance, 
if  in  London,  walk  once  up  and  down  Harley  Street,  or  Baker 
Street,  or  Gower  Street  ; and  then,  looking  upon  this  picture 
and  on  this,  set  himself  to  consider  (for  this  is  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  our  following  and  final  inquiry)  what  have  been  the 
causes  which  have  induced  so  vast  a change  in  the  European 
mind. 

§ ii.  Renaissance  architecture  is  the  school  which  has  con- 
ducted men’s  inventive  and  constructive  faculties  from  the 
Grand  Canal  to  Gower  Street ; from  the  marble  shaft,  and 
the  lancet  arch,  and  the  wreathed  leafage,  and  the  glowing 
and  melting  harmony  of  gold  and  azure,  to  the  square  cavity 
in  the  brick  wall.  We  have  now  to  consider  the  causes  and 
the  steps  of  this  change  ; and,  as  we  endeavored  above  to  in- 
vestigate the  nature  of  Gothic,  here  to  investigate  also  the 
nature  of  Renaissance. 

§ hi.  Although  Renaissance  architecture  assumes  very  dif- 
ferent forms  among  different  nations,  it  may  be  conveniently 
referred  to  three  heads  : — Early  Renaissance,  consisting  of  the 
first  coiTuptions  introduced  into  the  Gothic  schools  : Central 
or  Roman  Renaissance,  which  is  the  perfectly  formed  style  : 
and  Grotesque  Renaissance,  which  is  the  corruption  of  the 
Renaissance  itself. 

§ iv.  Now,  in  order  to  do  full  justice  to  the  adverse  cause, 
we  will  consider  the  abstract  nature  of  the  school  with  refer- 
ence only  to  its  best  or  central  examples.  The  forms  of  build- 
ing which  must  be  classed  generally  under  the  term  early 
Renaissance  are,  in  many  cases,  only  the  extravagances  and 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


7 


corruptions  of  the  languid  Gothic,  for  whose  errors  the  classi- 
cal principle  is  in  no  wise  answerable.  It  was  stated  in  the 
second  chapter  of  the  “ Seven  Lamps,”  that,  unless  luxury  had 
enervated  and  subtlety  falsified  the  Gothic  forms,  Roman  tra- 
ditions could  not  have  prevailed  against  them  ; and,  although 
these  enervated  and  false  conditions  are  almost  instantly 
colored  by  the  classical  influence,  it  would  be  utterly  unfair 
to  lay  to  the  charge  of  that  influence  the  first  debasement  of 
the  earlier  schools,  which  had  lost  the  strength  of  their  system 
before  they  could  be  struck  by  the  plague. 

§ v.  The  manner,  however,  of  the  debasement  of  all  schools 
of  art,  so  far  as  it  is  natural,  is  in  all  ages  the  same  ; luxu- 
riance of  ornament,  refinement  of  execution,  and  idle  subtle- 
ties of  fancy,  taking  the  place  of  true  thought  and  firm  hand- 
ling : and  I do  not  intend  to  delay  the  reader  long  by  the 
Gothic  sick-bed,  for  our  task  is  not  so  much  to  watch  the  wast- 
ing of  fever  in  the  features  of  the  expiring  king,  as  to  trace 
the  character  of  that  Hazael  who  dipped  the  cloth  in  water, 
and  laid  it  upon  his  face.  Nevertheless,  it  is  necessary  to  the 
completeness  of  our  view  of  the  architecture  of  Venice,  as 
well  as  to  our  understanding  of  the  manner  in  which  the  Cen- 
tral Renaissance  obtained  its  universal  dominion,  that  we 
glance  briefly  at  the  principal  forms  into  which  Venetian 
Gothic  first  declined.  They  are  two  in  number  : one  the  cor- 
ruption of  the  Gothic  itself ; the  other  a partial  return  to  By- 
zantine forms  ; for  the  Venetian  mind  having  carried  the 
Gothic  to  a point  at  which  it  was  dissatisfied,  tried  to  retrace 
its  steps,  fell  back  first  upon  Byzantine  types,  and  through 
them  passed  to  the  first  Roman.  But  in  thus  retracing  its 
steps,  it  does  not  recover  its  own  lost  energy.  It  revisits  the 
places  through  which  it  had  passed  in  the  morning  light,  but 
it  is  now  with  wearied  limbs,  and  under  the  gloomy  shadows  of 
evening. 

§ vi.  It  has  just  been  said  that  the  two  principal  causes  of 
natural  decline  in  any  school,  are  over-luxuriance  and  over- 
refinement.  The  corrupt  Gothic  of  Venice  furnishes  us  with 
a curious  instance  of  the  one,  and  the  corrupt  Byzantine  of 
the  other.  We  shall  examine  them  in  succession. 


8 


THE  STONES  OF  VENiCJE. 


Now,  observe,  first,  I do  not  mean  by  luxuriance  of  orna« 
ment,  quantity  of  ornament.  In  the  best  Gothic  in  the  world 
there  is  hardly  an  inch  of  stone  left  unsculptured.  But  I mean 
that  character  of  extravagance  in  the  ornament  itself  which 
shows  that  it  was  addressed  to  jaded  faculties  ; a violence  and 
coarseness  in  curvature,  a depth  of  shadow,  a lusciousness  in 
arrangement  of  line,  evidently  arising  out  of  an  incapability  of 
feeling  the  true  beauty  of  chaste  form  and  restrained  power. 
I do  not  know  any  character  of  design  which  may  be  more 
easily  recognized  at  a glance  than  this  over-lusciousness  ; and 
yet  it  seems  to  me  that  at  the  present  day  there  is  nothing  so 
little  understood  as  the  essential  difference  between  chasteness 
and  extravagance,  whether  in  color,  shade,  or  lines.  We  speak 
loosely  and  inaccurately  of  “ overcharged  ” ornament,  with  an 
obscure  feeling  that  there  is  indeed  something  in  visible  Form 
which  is  correspondent  to  Intemperance  in  moral  habits  ; but 
without  any  distinct  detection  of  the  character  which  offends 
us,  far  less  with  any  understanding  of  the  most  important 
lesson  which  there  can  be  no  doubt  was  intended  to  be  con- 
veyed by  the  universality  of  this  ornamental  law. 

§ vn.  In  a word,  then,  the  safeguard  of  highest  beauty,  in 
all  visible  work,  is  exactly  that  which  is  also  the  safeguard  of 
conduct  in  the  soul, — Temperance,  in  the  broadest  sense  ; the 
Temperance  which  we  have  seen  sitting  on  an  equal  throne 
with  Justice  amidst  the  Four  Cardinal  Virtues,  and,  wanting 
which,  there  is  not  any  other  virtue  which  may  not  lead  us 
into  desperate  error.  Now,  observe : Temperance,  in  the 
nobler  sense,  does  not  mean  a subdued  and  imperfect  energy  ; 
it  does  not  mean  a stopping  short  in  any  good  thing,  as  in 
Love  or  in  Faith  ; but  it  means  the  power  which  governs  the 
most  intense  energy,  and  prevents  its  acting  in  any  way  but 
as  it  ought.  And  with  respect  to  things  in  which  there  may 
be  excess,  it  does  not  mean  imperfect  enjoyment  of  them  ; but 
the  regulation  of  their  quantity,  so  that  the  enjoyment  of  them 
shall  be  greatest.  For  instance,  in  the  matter  we  have  at 
present  in  hand,  temperance  in  color  does  mean  imperfect 
or  dull  enjoyment  of  color  ; but  it  means  that  government  of 
color  which  shall  bring  the  utmost  possible  enjoyment  out  of 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


9 


all  hues.  A bad  colorist  does  not  love  beautiful  color  better 
than  the  best  colorist  does,  nor  half  so  much.  Bat  he  indulges 
in  it  to  excess  ; he  uses  it  in  large  masses,  and  unsubdued  ; 
and  then  it  is  a law  of  Nature,  a law  as  universal  as  that  of 
gravitation,  that  he  shall  not  be  able  to  enjoy  it  so  much  as  if 
he  had  used  it  in  less  quantity.  His  eye  is  jaded  and  satiated, 
and  the  blue  and  red  have  life  in  them  no  more.  He  tries  to 
paint  them  bluer  and  redder,  in  vain  : all  the  blue  has  become 
grey,  and  gets  greyer  the  more  he  adds  to  it ; all  his  crimson 
has  become  brown,  and  gets  more  sere  and  autumnal  the  more 
he  deepens  it.  But  the  great  painter  is  sternly  temperate  in 
his  work  ; he  loves  the  vivid  color  with  all  his  heart  ; but  for 
a long  time  he  does  not  allow  himself  anything  like  it,  nothing 
but  sober  browns  and  dull  greys,  and  colors  that  have  no  con- 
ceivable beauty  in  them  ; but  these  by  his  government  become 
lovely  : and  after  bringing  out  of  them  all  the  life  and  power 
they  possess,  and  enjoying  them  to  the  uttermost, — cautiously, 
and  as  the  crown  of  the  work,  and  the  consummation  of  its 
music,  he  permits  the  momentary  crimson  and  azure,  and  the 
whole  canvas  is  in  a llame. 

§ viii.  Again,  in  curvature,  which  is  the  cause  of  loveliness 
in  all  form  ; the  bad  designer  does  not  enjoy  it  more  than  the 
great  designer,  but  he  indulges  in  it  till  his  eye  is  satiated,  and 
he  cannot  obtain  enough  of  it  to  touch  his  jaded  feeling  for 
grace.  But  the  great  and  temperate  designer  does  not  allow 
himself  any  violent  curves ; he  works  much  with  lines  in 
which  the  curvature,  though  always  existing,  is  long  before  it 
is  perceived.  He  dwells  on  all  these  subdued  curvatures  to 
the  uttermost,  and  opposes  them  with  still  severer  lines  to 
bring  them  out  in  fuller  sweetness  ; and,  at  last,  he  allows  him- 
self a momentary  curve  of  energy,  and  all  the  work  is,  in  an 
instant,  full  of  life  and  grace. 

The  curves  drawn  in  Plate  YH.  of  the  first  volume,  were 
chosen  entirely  to  show  this  character  of  dignity  and  restraint, 
as  it  .appears  in  the  lines  of  nature,  together  with  the  per- 
petual changefulness  of  the  degrees  of  curvature  in  one  and 
the  same  line  ; but  although  the  purpose  of  that  plate  was 
carefully  explained  in  the  chapter  which  it  illustrates,  as  well 


10 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


as  in  the  passages  of  “Modern  Painters  ” therein  referred  to 
(vol.  ii.  pp.  236,  275),  so  little  are  we  now  in  the  habit  of  con- 
sidering the  character  of  abstract  lines,  that  it  was  thought  by 
many  persons  that  this  plate  only  illustrated  Hogarth’s  re- 
versed line  of  beauty,  even  although  the  curve  of  the  salvia 
leaf,  which  was  the  one  taken  from  that  plate  for  future  use, 
in  architecture,  was  not  a reversed  or  serpentine  curve  at  all. 
I shall  now,  however,  I hope,  be  able  to  show  my  meaning 
better. 

§ ix.  Fig.  1 in  Plate  I.,  opposite,  is  a piece  of  ornamenta- 
tion from  a Norman-French  manuscript  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, and  fig.  2 from  an  Italian  one  of  the  fifteenth.  Ob- 
serve in  the  first  its  stern  moderation  in  curvature  ; the 
gradually  united  lines  nearly  straight , though  none  quite 
straight,  used  for  its  main  limb,  and  contrasted  with  the  bold 
but*  simple  offshoots  of  its  leaves,  and  the  noble  spiral  from 
which  it  shoots,  these  in  their  turn  opposed  by  the  sharp  tre- 
foils and  thorny  cusps.  And  see  what  a reserve  of  resource 
there  is  in  the  whole  ; how  easy  it  would  have  been  to  make 
the  curves  more  palpable  and  the  foliage  more  rich,  and  how 
the  noble  hand  has  stayed  itself,  and  refused  to  grant  one 
wave  of  motion  more. 

§ x.  Then  observe  the  other  example,  in  which,  while  the 
same  idea  is  continually  repeated,  excitement  and  interest  are 
sought  for  by  means  of  violent  and  continual  curvatures  wholly 
unrestrained,  and  rolling  hither  and  thither  in  confused  wan- 
tonness. Compare  the  character  of  the  separate  lines  in  these 
two  examples  carefully,  and  be  assured  that  wherever  this 
redundant  and  luxurious  curvature  shows  itself  in  ornamenta- 
tion, it  is  a sign  of  jaded  energy  and  failing  invention.  Do 
not  confuse  it  with  fulness  or  richness.  Wealth  is  not  neces- 
sarily wantonness  : a Gothic  moulding  may  be  buried  half  a 
foot  deep  in  thorns  and  leaves,  and  yet  will  be  chaste  in  every 
line  ; and  a late  Renaissance  moulding  may  be  utterly  barren 
and  poverty-stricken,  and  yet  will  show  the  disposition  to  lux- 
ury in  every  line. 

§ xi.  Plate  XX.,  in  the  second  volume,  though  prepared 
for  the  special  illustration  of  the  notices  of  capitals,  becomes 


Plate  I. —Temperance  and  Intemperance  in  Curvature. 


' i 


Plate  II. — CtOthic  Capitals. 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


11 


peculiarly  interesting  when  considered  in  relation  to  the 
points  at  present  under  consideration.  The  four  leaves  in 
the  upper  row  are  Byzantine  ; the  two  middle  rows  are  tran- 
sitional, all  but  fig.  11,  which  is  of  the  formed  Gothic  ; fig. 
12  is  perfect  Gothic  of  the  finest  time  (Ducal  Palace,  oldest 
part),  fig  13  is  Gothic  beginning  to  decline,  fig.  14  is  Benais- 
sance  Gothic  in  complete  corruption. 

Now  observe,  first,  the  Gothic  naturalism  advancing  gradu- 
ally from  the  Byzantine  severity  ; how  from  the  sharp,  hard, 
formalized  conventionality  of  the  upper  series  the  leaves 
gradually  expand  into  more  free  and  flexible  animation,  until 
in  fig.  12  we  have  the  perfect  living  leaf  as  if  fresh  gathered 
out  of  the  dew.  And  then,  in  the  last  two  examples  and 
partly  in  fig.  11,  observe  how  the  forms  which  can  advance 
no  longer  in  animation,  advance,  or  rather  decline,  into  lux- 
ury and  effeminacy  as  the  strength  of  the  school  expires. 

§ xii.  In  the  second  place,  note  that  the  Byzantine  and 
Gothic  schools,  however  differing  in  degree  of  life,  are  both 
alike  in  temperance , though  the  temperance  of  the  Gothic  is 
the  nobler,  because  it  consists  with  entire  animation.  Ob- 
serve how  severe  and  subtle  the  curvatures  are  in  all  the 
leaves  from  fig.  1 to  fig.  12,  except  only  in  fig.  11  ; and  ob- 
serve especially  the  firmness  and  strength  obtained  by  the  close 
approximation  to  the  straight  line  in  the  lateral  ribs  of  the  leaf, 
fig.  12.  The  longer  the  eye  rests  on  these  temperate  curvatures 
the  more  it  will  enjoy  them,  but  it  will  assuredly  in  the  end 
be  wearied  by  the  morbid  exaggeration  of  the  last  example. 

§ xm.  Finally,  observe — and  this  is  very  important — how 
one  and  the  same  character  in  the  work  may  be  a sign  of 
totally  different  states  of  mind,  and  therefore  in  one  case  bad, 
and  in  the  other  good.  The  examples,  fig.  3 and  fig.  12,  are 
both  equally  pure  in  line  ; but  one  is  subdivided  in  the  ex- 
treme, the  other  broad  in  the  extreme,  and  both  are  beautiful. 
The  Byzantine  mind  delighted  in  the  delicacy  of  subdivision 
which  nature  shows  in  the  fern-leaf  or  parsley-leaf ; and  so, 
also,  often  the  Gothic  mind,  much  enjoying  the  oak,  thorn, 
and  thistle.  But  the  builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace  used  great 
breadth  in  his  foliage,  in  order  to  harmonize  with  the  broad 


12 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


surface  of  his  mighty  wall,  and  delighted  in  Ijiis  breadth  as 
nature  delights  in  the  sweeping  freshness  of  the  dock -leaf  or 
water-lily.  Both  breadth  and  subdivision  are  thus  noble, 
when  they  are  contemplated  or  conceived  by  a mind  in 
health ; and  both  become  ignoble,  when  conceived  by  a mind 
jaded  and  satiated.  The  subdivision  in  fig.  13  as  compared 
with  the  type,  fig.  12,  which  it  was  intended  to  improve,  is 
the  sign,  not  of  a mind  which  loved  intricacy,  but  of  one 
which  could  not  relish  simplicity,  which  had  not  strength 
enough  to  enjoy  the  broad  masses  of  the  earlier  leaves,  and 
cut  them  to  pieces  idly,  like  a child  tearing  the  book  which, 
in  its  weariness,  it  cannot  read.  And  on  the  other  hand,  we 
shall  continually  find,  in  other  examples  of  work  of  the  same 
period,  an  unwholesome  breadth  or  heaviness,  which  results 
from  the  mind  having  no  longer  any  care  for  refinement  or 
precision,  nor  taking  any  delight  in  delicate  forms,  but  mak- 
ing all  things  blunted,  cumbrous,  and  dead,  losing  at  the 
same  time  the  sense  of  the  elasticity  and  spring  of  natural 
curves.  It  is  as  if  the  soul  of  man,  itself  severed  from  the 
root  of  its  health,  and  about  to  fall  into  corruption,  lost  the 
perception  of  life  in  all  things  around  it ; and  could  no  more 
distinguish  the  wave  of  the  strong  branches,  full  of  muscular 
strength  and  sanguine  circulation,  from  the  lax  bending  of  a 
broken  cord,  nor  the  sinuousness  of  the  edge  of  the  leaf, 
crushed  into  deep  folds  by  the  expansion  of  its  living  growth, 
from  the  wrinkled  contraction  of  its  decay.*  Thus,  in  mor- 
als, there  is  a care  for  trifles  which  proceeds  from  love  and 
conscience,  and  is  most  holy  ; and  a care  for  trifles  which 
comes  of  idleness  and  frivolity,  and  is  most  base.  And  so, 
also,  there  is  a gravity  proceeding  from  thought,  which  is 
most  noble ; and  a gravity  proceeding  from  dulness  and  mere 
incapability  of  enjoyment,  which  is  most  base.  Now,  in  the 
various  forms  assumed  by  the  later  Gothic  of  Venice,  there 
are  one  or  two  features  which,  under  other  circumstances, 

* There  is  a curious  instance  of  this  in  the  modern  imitations  of  the 
Gothic  capitals  of  the  Casa  d’Oro,  employed  in  its  restorations.  The  old 
capitals  look  like  clusters  of  leaves,  the  modern  ones  like  kneaded 
masses  of  dough  with  holes  in  them. 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


13 


would  not  have  been  signs  of  decline ; but,  in  the  particular 
manner  of  .their  occurrence  here,  indicate  the  fatal  weariness 
of  decay.  Of  all  these  features  the  most  distinctive  are  its 
crockets  and  finials. 

§ xiv.  There  is  not  to  be  found  a single  crocket  or  finial 
upon  any  part  of  the  Ducal  Palace  built  during  the  fourteenth 
century  ; and  although  they  occur  on  contemporary,  and  on 
some  much  earlier,  buildings,  they  either  indicate  detached 
examples  of  schools  not  properly  Venetian,  or  are  signs  of  in- 
cipient decline. 

The  reason  of  this  is,  that  the  finial  is  properly  the  orna- 
ment of  gabled  architecture  ; it  is  the  compliance,  in  the 
minor  features  of  the  building,  with  the  spirit  of  its  towers, 
ridged  roof  and  spires.  Venetian  building  is  not  gabled, 
but  horizontal  in  its  roots  and  general  masses  ; therefore  the 
finial  is  a feature  contradictory  to  its  spirit,  and  adopted  only 
in  that  search  for  morbid  excitement  which  is  the  infallible 
indication  of  decline.  When  it  occurs  earlier,  it  is  on  frag- 
ments of  true  gabled  architecture,  as,  for  instance,  on  the 
porch  of  the  Carmini. 

In  proportion  to  the  unjustifiableness  of  its  introduction 
was  the  extravagance  of  the  form  it  assumed ; becoming, 
sometimes,  a tuft  at  the  top  of  the  ogee  windows,  half  as  high 
as  the  arch  itself,  and  consisting,  in  the  richest  examples,  of 
a human  figure,  half  emergent  out  of  a cup  of  leafage,  as,  for 
instance,  in  the  small  archway  of  the  Campo  San  Zaccaria  : 
while  the  crockets,  as  being  at  the  side  of  the  arch,  and  not 
so  strictly  connected  with  its  balance  and  symmetry,  appear 
to  consider  themselves  at  greater  liberty  even  than  the  finials, 
and  fling  themselves,  hither  and  thither,  in  the  wildest  con- 
tortions. Fig.  4.  in  Plate  I,  is  the  outline  of  one,  carved  in 
stone,  from  the  later  Gothic  of  St.  Mark’s  ; fig.  3 a crocket 
from  the  fine  Veronese  Gothic  ; in  order  to  enable  the  reader 
to  discern  the  Renaissance  character  better  by  comparison 
with  the  examples  of  curvature  above  them,  taken  from  the 
manuscripts.  And  not  content  with  this  exuberance  in  the 
external  ornaments  of  the  arch,  the  finial  interferes  with  its 
traceries.  The  increased  intricacy  of  these,  as  such,  being  a 


14 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 


natural  process  in  the  development  of  Gothic,  would  have 
been  no  evil  ; but  they  are  corrupted  by  the  enrichment  of 
the  finial  at  the  point  of  the  cusp, — corrupted,  that  is  to  say, 
in  Venice  : for  at  Verona  the  finial,  in  the  form  of  a fleur-de- 
lis,  appears  long  previously  at  the  cusp  point,  with  exquisite 
effect ; and  in  our  own  best  Northern  Gothic  it  is  often  used 
beautifully  in  this  place,  as  in  the  window  from  Salisbury, 
Plate  XII.  (Vol.  II.),  fig.  2.  But  in  Venice,  such  a treatment 
of  it  was  utterly  contrary  to  the  severe  spirit  of  the  ancient 
traceries  ; and  the  adoption  of  a leafy  finial  at  the  extremity 
of  the  cusps  in  the  door  of  San  Stefano,  as  opposed  to  the 
simple  ball  which  terminates  those  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  is  an 
unmistakable  indication  of  a tendency  to  decline. 

In  like  manner,  the  enrichment  and  complication  of  the 
jamb  mouldings,  which,  in  other  schools,  might  and  did  take 
place  in  the  healthiest  periods,  are,  at  Venice,  signs  of  decline, 
owing  to  the  entire  inconsistency  of  such  mouldings  with  the 
ancient  love  of  the  single  square  jamb  and  archivolt.  The 
process  of  enrichment  in  them  is  shown  by  the  successive 
examples  given  in  Plate  VII.,  below.  They  are  numbered, 
and  explained  in  the  Appendix. 

§ xv.  The  date  at  which  this  corrupt  form  of  Gothic  first 
prevailed  over  the  early  simplicity  of  the  Venetian  types  can 
be  determined  in  an  instant,  on  the  steps  of  the  choir  of  the 
Church  of  St,  John  and  Paul.  On  our  left  hand,  as  we  enter, 
is  the  tomb  6f  the  Doge  Marco  Cornaro,  who  died  in  1367. 
It  is  rich  and  fully  developed  Gothic,  with  crockets  and 
finials,  but  not  yet  attaining  any  extravagant  development. 
Opposite  to  it  is  that  of  the  Doge  Andrea  Morosini,  who 
died  in  1382.  Its  Gothic  is  voluptuous,  and  over-wrought ; 
the  crockets  are  bold  and  florid,  and  the  enormous  finial 
represents  a statue  of  St.  Michael.  There  is  no  excuse  for 
the  antiquaries  who,  having  this  tomb  before  them,  could 
have  attributed  the  severe  architecture  of  the  Ducal  Palace  to 
a later  date  ; for  every  one  of  the  Renaissance  errors  is  here 
in  complete  development,  though  not  so  grossly  as  entirely  to 
destroy  the  loveliness  of  the  Gothic  forms.  In  the  Porta 
della  Carta,  1423,  the  vice  reaches  its  climax. 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


15 


§ xvi.  Against  this  degraded  Gothic,  then,  came  np  the 
Renaissance  armies  ; and  their  first  assault  was  in  the  require- 
ment of  universal  perfection.  For  the  first  time  since  the 
destruction  of  Rome,  the  world  had  seen,  in  the  work  of  the 
greatest  artists  of  the  fifteenth  century, — in  the  painting  of 
Ghirlandajo,  Masaccio,  Francia,  Perugino,  Pinturicchio,  and 
Bellini ; in  the  sculpture  of  Mino  da  Fiesole,  of  Ghiberti,  and 
Verrocchio, — a perfection  of  execution  and  fulness  of  knowl- 
edge which  cast  all  previous  art  into  the  shade,  and  which, 
being  in  the  work  of  those  men  united  with  all  that  was  great 
in  that  of  former  days,  did  indeed  justify  the  utmost  enthu- 
siasm with  which  their  efforts  were,  or  could  be,  regarded. 
But  when  this  perfection  had  once  been  exhibited  in  anything, 
it  was  required  in  everything  ; the  world  could  no  longer  be 
satisfiedwith  less  exquisite  execution,  or  less  disciplined  knowl- 
edge. The  first  thing  that  it  demanded  in  all  work  was,  that 
it  should  be  done  in  a consummate  and  learned  way  ; and  men 
altogether  forgot  that  it  was  possible  to  consummate  what  was 
contemptible,  and  to  know  what  was  useless.  Imperatively 
requiring  dexterity  of  touch,  they  gradually  forgot  to  look 
for  tenderness  of  feeling  ; imperatively  requiring  accuracy 
of  knowledge,  they  gradually  forgot  to  ask  for  originality  of 
thought.  The  thought  and  the  feeling  which  they  despised 
departed  from  them,  and  they  were  left  to  felicitate  them- 
selves on  their  small  science  and  their  neat  fingering.  This 
is  the  history  of  the  first  attack  of  the  Renaissance  upon  the 
Gothic  schools,  and  of  its  rapid  results,  more  fatal  and  imme- 
diate in  architecture  than  in  any  other  art,  because  there  the 
demand  for  perfection  w^s  less  reasonable,  and  less  consistent 
with  the  capabilities  of  the  workman  ; being  utterly  opposed 
to  that  rudeness  or  savageness  on  which,  as  we  saw  above,  the 
nobility  of  the  elder  schools  in  great  part  depends.  But  inas- 
much as  the  innovations  were  founded  on  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  examples  of  art,  and  headed  b}-  some  of  the  greatest 
men  that  the  world  ever  saw,  and  as  the  Gothic  with  which 
they  interfered  was  corrupt  and  valueless,  the  first  appearance 
of  the  Renaissance  feeling  had  the  appearance  of  a healthy 
movement.  A new  energy  replaced  whatever  weariness  or 


16 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


dulness  had  affected  the  Gothic  mind  ; an  exquisite  taste  and 
refinement,  aided  by  extended  knowledge,  furnished  the  first 
models  of  the  new  school ; and  over  the  whole  of  Italy  a style 
arose,  generally  now  known  as  cinque-cento,  which  in  sculpture 
and  painting,  as  I just  stated,  produced  the  noblest  masters 
which  the  world  ever  saw,  headed  by  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael, 
and  Leonardo  ; but  which  failed  of  doing  the  same  in  archi- 
tecture, because,  as  we  have  seen  above,  perfection  is  therein 
not  possible,  and  failed  more  totally  than  it  would  otherwise 
have  done,  because  the  classical  enthusiasm  had  destroyed  the 
best  types  of  architectural  form. 

§ xvii.  For,  observe  here  very  carefully,  the  Renaissance 
principle,  as  it  consisted  in  a demand  for  universal  perfection, 
is  quite  distinct  from  the  Renaissance  principle  as  it  consists 
in  a.  demand  for  classical  and  Roman  forms  of  perfection. 
And  if  I had  space  to  follow  out  the  subject  as  I should  de- 
sire, I would  first  endeavor  to  ascertain  what  might  have  been 
the  course  of  the  art  of  Europe  if  no  manuscripts  of  classical 
authors  had  been  recovered,  and  no  remains  of  classical  archi- 
tecture left,  in  the  fifteenth  century  ; so  that  the  executive 
perfection  to  which  the  efforts  of  all  great  men  had  tended  for 
five  hundred  years,  and  which  now  at  last  was  reached,  might 
have  been  allowed  to  develope  itself  in  its  own  natural  and 
proper  form,  in  connexion  with  the  architectural  structure  of 
earlier  schools.  This  refinement  and  perfection  had  indeed 
its  own  perils,  and  the  history  of  later  Italy,  as  she  sank  into 
pleasure  and  thence  into  corruption,  would  probably  have 
been  the  same  whether  she  had  ever  learned  again  to  write 
pure  Latin  or  not.  Still  the  inquiry  into  the  probable  cause 
of  the  enervation  which  might  naturally  have  followed  the 
highest  exertion  of  her  energies,  is  a totally  distinct  one  from 
that  into  the  particular  form  given  to  this  enervation  by  her 
classical  learning  ; and  it  is  matter  of  considerable  regret  to 
me  that  I cannot  treat  these  two  subjects  separately  : I must 
be  content  with  marking  them  for  separation  in  the  mind  of 
the  reader. 

§ xvm.  The  effect,  then,  of  the  sudden  enthusiasm  for  clas- 
sical literature,  which  gained  strength  during  every  hour  of 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


17 


the  fifteenth  century,  was,  as  far  as  respected  architecture,  to 
do  away  with  the  entire  system  of  Gothic  science.  The 
pointed  arch,  the  shadowy  vault,  the  clustered  shaft,  the 
heaven-pointing  spire,  were  ail  swept  away  ; and  no  structure 
was  any  longer  permitted  but  that  of  the  plain  cross-beam 
from  pillar  to  pillar,  over  the  round  arch,  with  square  or  cir- 
cular shafts,  and  a low-gabled  roof  and  pediment : two  ele- 
ments of  noble  form,  which  had  fortunately  existed  in  Rome, 
were,  however,  for  that  reason,  still  permitted  ; the  cupola, 
and,  internally,  the  waggon  vault. 

§ xix.  These  changes  in  form  were  all  of  them  unfortu- 
nate ; and  it  is  almost  impossible  to  do  justice  to  the  occasion- 
ally exquisite  ornamentation  of  the  fifteenth  century,  on  ac- 
count of  its  being  placed  upon  edifices  of  the  cold  and  meagre 
Roman  outline.  There  is,  as  far  as  I know,  only  one  Gothic 
building  in  Europe,  the  Duomo  of  Florence,  in  which,  though 
the  ornament  be  of  a much  earlier  school,  it  is  yet  so  exqui- 
sitely finished  as  to  enable  us  to  imagine  what  might  have 
been  the  effect  of  the  perfect  workmanship  of  the  Renaissance, 
coming  out  of  the  hands  of  men  like  Verrocchio  and  Ghiberti, 
had  it  been  employed  on  the  magnificent  framework  of  Gothic 
structure.  This  is  the  question  which,  as  I shall  note  in  the 
concluding  chapter,  we  ought  to  set  ourselves  practically  to 
solve  in  modern  times. 

§ xx.  The  changes  effected  in  form,  however,  were  the 
least  part  of  the  evil  principles  of  the  Renaissance.  As  I have 
just  said,  its  main  mistake,  in  its  early  stages,  was  the  unwhole- 
some demand  for  perfection , at  any  cost.  I hope  enough  has 
been  advanced,  in  the  chapter  on  the  Nature  of  Gothic,  to 
show  the  reader  that  perfection  is  not  to  be  had  from  the  gen- 
eral workman,  but  at  the  cost  of  everything, — of  his  whole 
life,  thought,  and  energy.  And  Renaissance  Europe  thought 
this  a small  price  to  pay  for  manipulative  perfection.  Men 
like  Verrocchio  and  Ghiberti  wrere  not  to  be  had  every  day, 
nor  in  every  place  ; and  to  require  from  the  common  workman 
execution  or  knowledge  like  theirs,  was  to  require  him  to  be- 
come their  copyist.  Their  strength  was  great  enough  to 
enable  them  to  join  science  with  invention,  method  with  emo 
Vol.  III.— 2 


IS 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


tion,  finish  with  fire  ; but,  in  them,  the  invention  and  the  fire 
were  first,  while  Europe  saw  in  them  only  ths  method  and  the 
finish.  This  was  new  to  the  minds  of  men,  and  they  pursued 
it  to  the  neglect  of  everything  else.  “ This,”  they  cried,  “ we 
must  have  in  all  our  work  henceforward : ” and  they  wrere 
obeyed.  The  lower  workman  secured  method  and  finish,  and 
lost,  in  exchange  for  them,  his  soul. 

§ xxi.  Now,  therefore,  do  not  let  me  be  misunderstood 
when  I speak  generally  of  the  evil  spirit  of  the  Renaissance. 
The  reader  may  look  through  all  I have  written,  from  first  to 
last,  and  he  will  not  find  one  word  but  of  the  most  profound 
reverence  for  those  mighty  men  who  could  wear  the  Renais- 
sance armor  of  proof,  and  yet  not  feel  it  encumber  their 
living  limbs,* — Leonardo  and  Michael  Angelo,  Ghirlandajo 
and  Masaccio,  Titian  and  Tintoret.  But  I speak  of  the  Renais- 
sance as  an  evil  time,  because,  when  it  saw  those  men  go  burn- 
ing forth  into  the  battle,  it  mistook  their  armor  for  their 
strength  : and  forthwith  encumbered  with  the  painful  panoply 
every  stripling  who  ought  to  have  gone  forth  only  wdth  his 
own  choice  of  three  smooth  stones  out  of  the  brook. 

§ xxii.  This,  then,  the  reader  must  always  keep  in  mind 
when  he  is  examining  for  himself  any  examples  of  cinque- 
cento  work.  When  it  has  been  done  by  a truly  great  man, 
whose  life  and  strength  could  not  be  oppressed,  and  who 
turned  to  good  account  the  whole  science  of  his  day,  nothing 
is  more  exquisite.  I do  not  believe,  for  instance,  that  there  is 
a more  glorious  work  of  sculpture  existing  in  the  world  than 
that  equestrian  statue  of  Bartolomeo  Colleone,  by  Verrocchio, 
of  which,  I hope,  before  these  pages  are  printed,  there  will 
be  a cast  in  England.  But  when  the  cinque-cento  work  has 
been  done  by  those  meaner  men,  who,  in  the  Gothic  times, 
though  in  a rough  way,  wTould  yet  have  found  some  means  of 
speaking  out  what  wras  in  their  hearts,  it  is  utterly  inanimate, 
— a base  and  helpless  copy  of  more  accomplished  models  ; or, 
if  not  this,  a mere  accumulation  of  technical  skill,  in  gaining 

* Not  that  even  these  men  were  able  to  wear  it  altogether  without 
harm,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  next  chapter. 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


19 


which  the  workman  had  surrendered  all  other  powers  that 
were  in  him. 

There  is,  therefore,  of  course,  an  infinite  gradation  in  the 
art  of  the  period,  from  the  Sistine  Chapel  down  to  modern 
upholstery  ; but,  for  the  most  part,  since  in  architecture  the 
workman  must  be  of  an  inferior  order,  it  will  be  found  that 
this  cinque-cento  painting  and  higher  religious  sculpture  is 
noble,  while  the  cinque-cento  architecture,  with  its  subordi- 
nate sculpture,  is  universally  bad  ; sometimes,  however,  as- 
suming forms,  in  which  the  consummate  refinement  almost 
atones  for  the  loss  of  force. 

§ xxiii.  This  is  especially  the  case  with  that  second  branch 
of  the  Renaissance  'which,  as  above  noticed,  was  engrafted  at 
Venice  on  the  Byzantine  types.  So  soon  as  the  classical  en- 
thusiasm required  the  banishment  of  Gothic  forms,  it  was 
natural  that  the  Venetian  mind  should  turn  back  with  affec- 
tion to  the  Byzantine  models  in  which  the  round  arches  and 
simple  shafts,  necessitated  by  recent  law,  were  presented 
under  a form  consecrated  by  the  usage  of  their  ancestors. 
And,  accordingly,  the  first  distinct  school  of  architecture* 
which  arose  under  the  new  dynasty,  was  one  in  which  the 
method  of  inlaying  marble,  and  the  general  forms  of  shaft 
and  arch,  were  adopted  from  the  buildings  of  the  twelfth 
century,  and  applied  with  the  utmost  possible  refinements  of 
modern  skill.  Both  at  Verona  and  Venice  the  resulting 
architecture  is  exceedingly  beautiful.  At  Verona  it  is,  indeed, 
less  Byzantine,  but  possesses  a character  of  richness  and 
tenderness  almost  peculiar  to  that  city.  At  Venice  it  is  more 
severe,  but  yet  adorned  with  sculpture  which,  for  sharpness 
of  touch  and  delicacy  of  minute  form,  cannot  be  rivalled,  and 
rendered  especially  brilliant  and  beautiful  by  the  introduction 
of  those  inlaid  circles  of  colored  marble,  serpentine  and  por- 
phyry, by  which  Phillippe  de  Commynes  was  so  much  struck 
on  his  first  entrance  into  the  city.  The  two  most  refined 
buildings  in  this  style  in  Venice  are,  the  small  Church  of  the 
Miracoli,  and  the  Scuola  di  San  Marco  besid’e  the  Church  of 
St.  John  and  St.  Paul.  The  noblest  is  the  Rio  Facade  of  the 
* Appendix  4,  “ Date  of  Palaces  of  Byzantine  Renaissance.” 


20 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Ducal  Palace.  The  Casa  Dario,  and  Casa  Manzoni,  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  are  exquisite  examples  of  the  school,  as  applied 
to  domestic  architecture  ; and,  in  the  reach  of  the  canal  be 
tween  the  Casa  Foscari  and  the  Rialto,  there  are  several 
palaces,  of  which  the  Casa  Contarini  (called  “ delle  Figure  ”) 
is  the  principal,  belonging  to  the  same  group,  though  some- 
what later,  and  remarkable  for  the  association  of  the  Byzam 
tine  principles  of  color  with  the  severest  lines  of  the  Roman 
pediment,  gradually  superseding  the  round  arch.  The  pre- 
cision of  chiselling  and  delicacy  of  proportion  in  the  orna- 
ment and  general  lines  of  these  palaces  cannot  be  too  highly 
praised  ; and  I believe  that  the  traveller  in  Venice,  in  general, 
gives  them  rather  too  little  attention  than  too  much.  But 
while  I would  ask  him  to  stay  his  gondola  beside  each  of 
them  long  enough  to  examine  their  every  line,  I must  also 
warn  him  to  observe,  most  carefully,  the  peculiar  feebleness 
and  want  of  soul  in  the  conception  of  their  ornament,  which 
mark  them  as  belonging  to  a period  of  decline  ; as  well  as  the 
absurd  mode  of  introduction  of  their  pieces  of  colored  marble : 
these,  instead  of  being  simply  and  naturally  inserted  in  the 
masonry,  are  placed  in  small  circular  or  oblong  frames  of 
sculpture,  like  mirrors  or  pictures,  and  are  represented  as 
suspended  by  ribands  against  the  wall  ; a pair  of  wings  being 
generally  fastened  on  to  the  circular  tablets,  as  if  to  relieve 
the  ribands  and  knots  from  their  weight,  and  the  whole  series 
tied  under  the  chin  of  a little  cherub  at  the  top,  who  is  nailed 
against  the  facade  like  a hawk  on  a barn  door. 

But  chiefly  let  him  notice,  in  the  Casa  Contarini  delle 
Figure,  one  most  strange  incident,  seeming  to  have  been  per- 
mitted, like  the  choice  of  the  subjects  at  the  three  angles  of 
the  Ducal  Palace,  in  order  to  teach  us,  by  a single  lesson,  the 
true  nature  of  the  style  in  which  it  occurs.  In  the  intervals 
of  the  windows  of  the  first  story,  certain  shields  and  torches 
are  attached,  in  the  form  of  trophies,  to  the  stems  of  two  trees 
whose  boughs  have  been  cut  off,  and  only  one  or  two  of  their 
faded  leaves  left;  scarcely  observable,  but  delicately  sculptured 
here  and  there,  beneath  the  insertions  of  the  severed  boughs. 

It  is  as  if  the  workman  had  intended  to  leave  us  an  image 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


21 


of  the  expiring  naturalism  of  the  Gothic  school.  I had  not 
seen  this  sculpture  when  I wrote  the  passage  referring  to  its 
period,  in  the  first  volume  of  this  work  (Chap.  XX.  § xxxi.)  : 
—“Autumn  came,— the  leaves  were  shed, — and  the  eye  was 
directed  to  the  extremities  of  the  delicate  branches.  The 
Renaissance  frosts  came,  and  all  perished  ! ” 

§ xxiv.  And  the  hues  of  this  autumn  of  the  early  Xtenais 
sance  are  the  last  which  appear  in  architecture.  The  winter 
which  succeeded  was  colorless  as  it  was  cold  ; and  although 
the  Venetian  painters  struggled  long  against  its  influence,  the 
numbness  of  the  architecture  prevailed  over  them  at  last,  and 
the  exteriors  of  all  the  latter  palaces  were  built  only  in  barren 
stone.  As  at  this  point  of  our  inquiry,  therefore,  we  must  bid 
farewell  to  color,  I have  reserved  for  this  place  the  continua- 
tion of  the  history  of  chromatic  decoration,  from  the  Byzan- 
tine period,  when  we  left  it  in  the  fifth  chapter  of  the  second 
volume,  down  to  its  final  close. 

§ xxv.  It  was  above  stated,  that  the  principal  difference  in 
general  form  and  treatment  between  the  Byzantine  and  Gothic 
palaces  was  the  contraction  of  the  marble  facing  into  the  nar- 
row spaces  between  the  windows,  leaving  large  fields  of  brick 
wall  perfectly  bare.  The  reason  for  this  appears  to  have  been, 
that  the  Gothic  builders  were  no  longer  satisfied  with  the 
faint  and  delicate  hues  of  the  veined  marble  ; they  wished  for 
some  moie  forcible  and  piquant  mode  of  decoration,  corre- 
sponding more  completely  with  the  gradually  advancing  splen- 
dor of  chivalric  costume  and  heraldic  device.  Wliat  I have 
said  above  of  the  simple  habits  of  life  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, in  no  wise  refers  either  to  costumes  of  state,  or  of  mili. 
tary  service  ; and  any  illumination  of  the  thirteenth  and  early 
rourteenth  centuries  (the  great  period  being,  it  seems  to  me, 
from  1250  to  1350),  while  it  shows  a peculiar  majesty  and 
simplicity  in  the  fall  of  the  robes  (often  worn  over  the  chain 
armor),  indicates,  at  the  same  time,  an  exquisite  brilliancy  of 
color  and  power  of  design  in  the  hems  and  borders,  as  well  as 
m the  armorial  bearings  with  which  they  are  charged  ; and 
while,  as  we  have  seen,  a peculiar  simplicity  is  found  also  in 
the  foi-ms  of  the  architecture,  corresponding  to  that  of  the 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


folds  of  the  robes,  its  colors  were  constantly  increasing  in  brill* 
iancy  and  decision,  corresponding  to  those  of  the  quartering 
of  the  shield,  and  of  the  embroidery  of  the  mantle. 

§ xxvi.  Whether,  indeed,  derived  from  the  quartering^  of 
the  knights’  shields,  or  from  what  other  source,  I know  not ; 
but  there  is  one  magnificent  attribute  of  the  coloring  of  the 
late  twelfth,  the  whole  thirteenth,  and  the  early  fourteenth 
century,  which  I do  not  find  definitely  in  any  previous  work, 
nor  afterwards  in  general  art,  though  constantly,  and  neces- 
sarily, in  that  of  great  colorists,  namely,  the  union  of  one 
color  with  another  by  reciprocal  interference  : that  is  to  say, 
if  a mass  of  red  is  to  be  set  beside  a mass  of  blue,  a piece  of 
the  red  will  be  carried  into  the  blue,  and  a piece  of  the  blue 
carried  into  the  red  ; sometimes  in  nearly  equal  portions,  as 
in  a shield  divided  into  four  quarters,  of  which  the  upper- 
most on  one  side  will  be  of  the  same  color  as  the  lowermost 
on  the  other  ; sometimes  in  smaller  fragments,  but,  in  the 
periods  above  named,  always  definitely  and  grandly,  though 
in  a thousand  various  ways.  And  I call  it  a magnificent  prin- 
ciple, for  it  is  an  eternal  and  universal  one,  not  in  art  only,* 
but  in  human  life.  It  is  the  great  principle  of  Brotherhood, 
not  by  equality,  nor  by  likeness,  but  by  giving  and  receiving  ; 
the  souls  that  are  unlike,  and  the  nations  that  are  unlike,  and 
the  natures  that  are  unlike,  being  bound  into  one  noble  whole 

* In  the  various  works  which  Mr.  Prout  has  written  on  light  and 
shade,  no  principle  will  be  found  insisted  on  more  strongly  than  this 
carrying  of  the  dark  into  the  light,  and  vice  versa . It  is  curious  to  find 
the  untaught  instinct  of  a merely  picturesque  artist  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  fixing  itself  so  intensely  on  a principle  which  regulated  the  en- 
tire sacred  composition  of  the  thirteenth.  I say  “ untaught”  instinct, 
for  Mr.  Prout  was,  throughout  his  life,  the  discoverer  of  his  own  prin- 
ciples ; fortunately  so,  considering  what  principles  were  taught  in  his 
time,  but  unfortunately  in  the  abstract,  for  there  were  gifts  in  him, 
which,  had  there  been  any  wholesome  influences  to  cherish  them, 
might  have  made  him  one  of  the  greatest  men  of  his  age.  He  was 
great,  under  all  adverse  circumstances,  but  the  mere  wreck  of  what  he 
might  have  been,  if,  after  the  rough  training  noticed  in  my  pamphlet 
on  Pre-Raphaelitism,  as  having  fitted  him  for  his  great  function  in  the 
world,  he  had  met  with  a teacher  who  could  have  appreciated  his 
powers,  and  directed  them. 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


23 


by  each  receiving  something  from,  and  of,  the  others’  gifts 
and  the  others’  glory.  I have  not  space  to  follow  out  this 
thought, — it  is  of  infinite  extent  and  application, — but  I note 
it  for  the  reader’s  pursuit,  because  I have  long  believed,  and 
the  whole  second  volume  of  “ Modern  Painters  ” was  written 
to  prove,  that  in  whatever  has  been  made  by  the  Deity  exter- 
nally delightful  to  the  human  sense  of  beauty,  there  is  some 
type  of  God’s  nature  or  of  God’s  laws  ; nor  are  any  of  His 
laws,  in  one  sense,  greater  than  the  appointment  that  the 
most  lovely  and  perfect  unity  shall  be  obtained  by  the  taking 
of  one  nature  into  another.  I trespass  upon  too  high  ground  ; 
and  yet  I cannot  fully  show  the  reader  the  extent  of  this  law, 
but  by  leading  him  thus  far.  And  it  is  just  because  it  is  so 
vast  and  so  awful  a law,  that  it  has  rule  over  the  smallest 
things ; and  there  is  not  a vein  of  color  on  the  lightest  leaf 
which  the  spring  winds  are  at  this  moment  unfolding  in  the 
fields  around  us,  but  it  is  an  illustration  of  an  ordainment  to 
which  the  earth  and  its  creatures  owe  their  continuance,  and 
their  Eedemption. 

§ xxvn.  It  is  perfectly  inconceivable,  until  it  has  been  made 
a subject  of  special  inquiry,  how  perpetually  Nature  employs 
this  principle  in  the  distribution  of  her  light  and  shade  ; how 
by  the  most  extraordinary  adaptations,  aj^parently  accidental, 
but  always  in  exactly  the  right  place,  she  contrives  to  bring 
darkness  into  light,  and  light  into  darkness ; and  that  so 
sharply  and  decisively,  that  at  the  very  instant  when  one  ob- 
ject changes  from  light  to  dark,  the  thing  relieved  upon  it 
will  change  from  dark  to  light,  and  yet  so  subtly  that  the  eye 
will  not  detect  the  transition  till  it  looks  for  it.  The  secret 
of  a great  part  of  the  grandeur  in  all  the  noblest  compositions 
is  the  doing  of  this  delicately  in  degree , and  broadly  in  mass  ; 
in  color  it  may  be  done  much  more  decisively  than  in  light 
and  shade,  and,  according  to  the  simplicity  of  the  work,  with 
greater  frankness  of  confession,  until,  in  purely  decorative 
art,  as  in  the  illumination,  glass-painting,  and  heraldry  of  the 
great  periods,  we  find  it  reduced  to  segmental  accuracy.  Its 
greatest  masters,  in  high  art,  are  Tintoret,  Veronese,  and 
Turner. 


24 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


§ xxviii.  Together  with  this  great  principle  of  quartering  is 
introduced  another,  also  of  very  high  value  as  far  as  regards 
the  delight  of  the  eye,  though  not  of  so  profound  meaning. 
As  soon  as  color  began  to  be  used  in  broad  and  opposed  fields, 
it  was  perceived  that  the  mass  of  it  destroyed  its  brilliancy, 
and  it  was  tempered  by  chequering  it  with  some  other  color 
or  colors  in  smaller  quantities,  mingled  with  minute  portions 
of  pure  white.  The  two  moral  principles  of  which  this  is  the 
type,  are  those  of  Temperance  and  Purity ; the  one  requiring 
the  fulness  of  the  color  to  be  subdued,  and  the  other  that  it 
shall  be  subdued  without  losing  either  its  own  parity  or  that 
of  the  colors  with  which  it  is  associated. 

§ xxix.  Hence  arose  the  universal  and  admirable  system  of 
the  diapered  or  chequered  background  of  early  ornamental 
art.  They  are  completely  developed  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, and  extend  through  the  whole  of  the  fourteenth  gradu- 
ally yielding  to  landscape,  and  other  pictorial  backgrounds, 
as  the  designers  lost  perception  of  the  purpose  of  their  art, 
and  of  the  value  of  color.  The  chromatic  decoration  of  the 
Gothic  palaces  of  Venice  w7as  of  course  founded  on  these  two 
great  principles,  which  prevailed  constantly  wherever  the  true 
chivalric  and  Gothic  spirit  possessed  any  influence.  The  win- 
dows, with  their  intermediate  spaces  of  marble,  were  con- 
sidered as  the  objects  to  be  relieved,  and  variously  quartered 
with  vigorous  color.  The  whole  space  of  the  brick  wrall  was 
considered  as  a background ; it  was  covered  with  stucco,  and 
painted  in  fresco,  with  diaper  patterns. 

§ xxx.  What  ? the  reader  asks  in  some  surprise, — Stucco  ! 
and  in  the  great  Gothic  period  ? Even  so,  but  not  stucco  to 
imitate  stone.  Herein  lies  all  the  difference  ; it  is  stucco  con- 
fessed and  understood,  and  laid  on  the  bricks  precisely  as  gesso 
is  laid  on  canvas,  in  order  to  form  them  into  a ground  for 
receiving  color  from  the  human  hand, — color  which,  if  well 
laid  on,  might  render  the  brick  wall  more  precious  than  if  it 
had  been  built  of  emeralds.  Whenever  wre  wish  to  paint,  we 
may  prepare  our  paper  as  we  choose  ; the  value  of  the  ground 
in  no  wise  adds  to  the  value  of  the  picture.  A Tintoret  on 
beaten  gold  would  be  of  no  more  value  than  a Tintoret  on 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


25 


coarse  canvas  ; the  gold  would  merely  be  wasted.  All  that 
we  have  to  do  is  to  make  the  ground  as  good  and  fit  for  the 
color  as  possible,  by  whatever  means. 

§ xxxi.  I am  not  sure  if  I am  right  in  applying  the  term 
“ stucco  ” to  the  ground  of  fresco  ; but  this  is  of  no  conse- 
quence ; the  reader  will  understand  that  it  was  white,  and  that 
the  whole  w*all  of  the  palace  was  considered  as  the  page  of  a 
book  to  be  illuminated : but  he  will  understand  also  that  the 
sea  winds  are  bad  librarians  ; that,  when  once  the  painted 
stucco  began  to  fade  or  to  fall,  the  unsightliness  of  the  defaced 
color  would  necessitate  its  immediate  restoration  ; and  that 
therefore,  of  all  the  chromatic  decoration  of  the  Gothic  palaces, 
there  is  hardly  a fragment  left. 

Happily,  in  the  pictures  of  Gentile  Bellini,  the  fresco  color- 
ing of  the  Gothic  palaces  is  recorded,  as  it  still  remained  in 
his  time  ; not  with  rigid  accuracy,  but  quite  distinctly  enough 
to  enable  us,  by  comparing  it  with  the  existing  colored  designs 
in  the  manuscripts  and  glass  of  the  period,  to  ascertain  pre- 
cisely what  it  must  have  been. 

§ xxxii.  The  walls  were  generally  covered  with  chequers 
of  very  warm  color,  a russet  inclining  to  scarlet,  more  or  less 
relieved  with  white,  black,  and  grey  ; as  still  seen  in  the  only 
example  which,  having  been  executed  in  marble,  has  been  per- 
fectly preserved,  the  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  This,  how- 
ever, owing  to  the  nature  of  its  materials,  was  a peculiarly 
simple  example  ; the  ground  is  white,  crossed  with  double 
bars  of  pale  red,  and  in  the  centre  of  each  chequer  there  is  a 
cross,  alternately  black  with  a red  centre  and  red  with  a black 
centre  where  the  arms  cross.  In  painted  work  the  grounds 
would  be,  of  course,  as  varied  and  complicated  as  those  of 
manuscripts  ; but  I only  know  of  one  example  left,  on  the 
Casa  Sagredo,  where,  on  some  fragments  of  stucco,  a very 
early  chequer  background  is  traceable,  composed  of  crimson 
quatrefoils  interlaced,  with  cherubim  stretching  their  wings 
filling  the  intervals.  A small  portion  of  this  ground  is  seen 
beside  the  window  taken  from  the  palace,  Yol.  II.  Plate  XHL 
% !• 

§ xxxni.  It  ought  to  be  especially  noticed,  that,  in  alj 


26 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


chequered  patterns  employed  in  the  colored  designs  of  these 
noble  periods,  the  greatest  care  is  taken  to  mark  that  they  are 
grounds  of  design  rather  than  designs  themselves.  Modern 
architects,  in  such  minor  imitations  as  they  are  beginning  to 
attempt,  endeavor  to  dispose  the  parts  in  the  patterns  so  as 
to  occupy  certain  symmetrical  positions  with  respect  to  the 
parts  of  the  architecture.  A Gothic  builder  never  does  this  : 
he  cuts  his  ground  into  pieces  of  the  shape  he  requires  with 
utter  remorselessness,  and  places  his  windows  or  doors  upon 
it  with  no  regard  whatever  to  the  lines  in  which  they  cut  the 
pattern  : and,  in  illuminations  of  manuscripts,  the  chequer 
itself  is  constantly  changed  in  the  most  subtle  and  arbitrary 
way,  wherever  there  is  the  least  chance  of  its  regularity  at- 
tracting the  eye,  and  making  it  of  importance.  So  intentional 
is  this,  that  a diaper  pattern  is  often  set  obliquely  to  the  verti- 
cal lines  of  the  designs,  for  fear  it  should  appear  in  any  way 
connected  with  them. 

§ xxxiv.  On  these  russet  or  crimson  backgrounds  the  entire 
space  of  the  series  of  windows  was  relieved,  for  the  most  part, 
as  a subdued  white  field  of  alabaster  ; and  on  this  delicate  and 
veined  white  were  set  the  circular  disks  of  purple  and  green. 
The  arms  of  the  family  were  of  course  blazoned  in  their  own 
proper  colors,  but  I think  generally  on  a pure  azure  ground  ; 
the  blue  color  is  still  left  behind  the  shields  in  the  Casa  Priuli 
and  one  or  two  more  of  the  palaces  which  are  unrestored,  and 
the  blue  ground  was  used  also  to  relieve  the  sculptures  of  re- 
ligious subject.  Finally,  all  the  mouldings,  capitals,  cornices, 
cusps,  and  traceries,  were  either  entirely  gilded  or  profusely 
touched  with  gold. 

The  whole  front  of  a Gothic  palace  in  Venice  may,  there- 
fore, be  simply  described  as  a field  of  subdued  russet,  quar- 
tered with  broad  sculptured  masses  of  white  and  gold  ; these 
latter  being  relieved  by  smaller  inlaid  fragments  of  blue,  pur- 
ple, and  deep  green. 

§ xxxv.  Now,  from  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
when  painting  and  architecture  were  thus  united,  two  pro- 
cesses of  change  went  on  simultaneously  to  the  beginning  of 
the  seventeenth.  The  merely  decorative  chequerings  on  the 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


27 


walls  yielded  gradually  to  more  elaborate  paintings  of  figure- 
subject  ; first  small  and  quaint,  and  then  enlarging  into  enor- 
mous pictures  filled  by  figures  generally  colossal.  As  these 
paintings  became  of  greater  merit  and  importance,  the  archi- 
tecture with  which  they  were  associated  was  less  studied  ; 
and  at  last  a style  was  introduced  in  which  the  framework  of 
the  building  was  little  more  interesting  than  that  of  a Man- 
chester factory,  but  the  whole  space  of  its  walls  was  covered 
with  the  most  precious  fresco  paintings.  Such  edifices  are  of 
course  no  longer  to  be  considered  as  forming  an  architectural 
school ; they  were  merely  large  preparations  of  artists'  panels  ; 
and  Titian,  Giorgione,  and  Veronese  no  more  conferred  merit 
on  the  later  architecture  of  Venice,  as  such,  by  painting  on  its 
facades,  than  Landseer  or  Watts  could  confer  merit  on  that 
of  London  by  first  whitewashing  and  then  painting  its  brick 
streets  from  one  end  to  the  other. 

§ xxxvi.  Contemporarily  with  this  change  in  the  relative 
values  of  the  color  decoration  and  the  stonework,  one  equally 
important  was  taking  place  in  the  opposite  direction,  but  of 
course  in  another  group  of  buildings.  For  in  proportion  as 
the  architect  felt  himself  thrust  aside  or  forgotten  in  one  edi- 
fice, he  endeavored  to  make  himself  principal  in  another  ; and, 
in  retaliation  for  the  painter’s  entire  usurpation  of  certain 
fields  of  design,  succeeded  in  excluding  him  totally  from  those 
in  which  his  own  influence  was  predominant.  Or,  more  accu- 
rately speaking,  the  architects  began  to  be  too  proud  to  re- 
ceive assistance  from  the  colorists ; and  these  latter  sought 
for  ground  which  the  architect  had  abandoned,  for  the  un- 
restrained display  of  their  own  skill.  And  thus,  w7hile  one 
series  of  edifices  is  continually  becoming  feebler  in  design  and 
richer  in  superimposed  paintings,  another,  that  of  which  we 
have  so  often  spoken  as  the  earliest  or  Byzantine  Renaissance, 
fragment  by  fragment  rejects  the  pictorial  decoration  ; sup- 
plies its  place  first  with  marbles,  and  then,  as  the  latter  are 
felt  by  the  architect,  daily  increasing  in  arrogance  and  deep- 
ening in  coldness,  to  be  too  bright  for  his  dignity,  he  casts 
even  these  aside  one  by  one  : and  when  the  last  porphyry 
circle  has  vanished  from  the  fa£ade,  we  find  twro  palaces  stand- 


28 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ing  side  by  side,  one  built,  so  far  as  mere  masonry  goes,  with 
consummate  care  and  skill,  but  without  the  slightest  vestige 
of  color  in  any  part  of  it ; the  other  utterly  without  any  claim 
to  interest  in  its  architectural  form,  but  covered  from  top  to 
bottom  with  paintings  by  Veronese.  At  this  period,  then,  we 
bid  farewell  to  color,  leaving  the  painters  to  their  own  pecu- 
liar field ; and  only  regretting  that  they  wraste  their  noblest 
work  on  walls,  from  which  in  a couple  of  centuries,  if  not  be- 
fore, the  greater  part  of  their  labor  must  be  effaced.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  architecture  whose  decline  we  are  tracing,  has 
now  assumed  an  entirely  new  condition,  that  of  the  Central 
or  True  Renaissance,  whose  nature  we  are  to  examine  in  the 
next  chapter. 

§ xxxvii.  But  before  leaving  these  last  palaces  over  which 
the  Byzantine  influence  extended  itself,  there  is  one  more 
lesson  to  be  learned  from  them  of  much  importance  to  us. 
Though  in  many  respects  debased  in  style,  they  are  consum- 
mate in  workmanship,  and  unstained  in  honor  ; there  is  no 
imperfection  in  them,  and  no  dishonesty.  That  there  is  ab 
solutely  no  imperfection,  is  indeed,  as  we  have  seen  above,  l 
proof  of  their  being  wanting  in  the  highest  qualities  of  archi- 
tecture ; but,  as  lessons  in  masonry,  they  have  their  value, 
and  may  well  be  studied  for  the  excellence  they  display  in 
methods  of  levelling  stones,  for  the  precision  of  their  inlaying, 
and  other  such  qualities,  which  in  them  are  indeed  too  prin- 
cipal, yet  very  instructive  in  their  particular  wTay. 

§ xxxviii.  For  instance,  in  the  inlaid  design  of  the  dove 
with  the  olive  branch,  from  the  Casa  Trevisan  (Vol.  I.  Plate 
XX.  p.  362),  it  is  impossible  for  anything  to  go  beyond  the 
precision  with  which  the  olive  leaves  are  cut  out  of  the  white 
marble ; and,  in  some  wreaths  of  laurel  below,  the  rippled 
edge  of  each  leaf  is  as  finely  and  easily  drawn,  as  if  by  a deli- 
cate pencil.  No  Florentine  table  is  more  exquisitely  finished 
than  the  facade  of  this  entire  palace  ; and  as  ideals  of  an 
executive  perfection,  which,  though  we  must  not  turn  aside 
from  our  main  path  to  reach  it,  may  yet  with  much  advantage 
be  kept  in  our  sight  and  memory,  these  palaces  are  most  no- 
table amidst  the  architecture  of  Europe.  The  Rio  Fajade  of 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


29 


the  Ducal  Palace,  though  very  sparing  in  color,  is  yet,  as  an 
example  of  finished  masonry  in  a vast  building,  one  of  the 
finest  things,  not  only  in  Venice,  but  in  the  world.  It  differs 
from  other  work  of  the  Byzantine  Renaissance,  in  being  on  a 
very  large  scale  ; and  it  still  retains  one  pure  Gothic  charac- 
ter, which  adds  not  a little  to  its  nobleness,  that  of  perpetual 
variety.  There  is  hardly  one  window  of  it,  or  one  panel,  that 
is  like  another  j and  this  continual  chang'e  so  increases  its 
apparent  size  by  confusing  the  eye,  that,  though  presenting 
no  bold  features,  or  striking  masses  of  any  kind,  there  are 
few  things  in  Italy  more  impressive  than  the  vision  of  it  over- 
head, as ^ the  gondola  glides  from  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
And  lastly  (unless  we  are  to  blame  these  buildings  for  some 
pieces  of  very  childish  perspective),  they  are  magnificently 
honest,  as  well  as  perfect.  I do  not  remember  even  any 
gilding  upon  them  ; all  is  pure  marble,  and  of  the  finest 
kind.* 

And  therefore,  in  finally  leaving  the  Ducal  Palace,  f let  us 
take  with  us  one  more  lesson,  the  last  which  we  shall  receive 
from  the  Stones  of  Venice,  except  in  the  form  of  a warning. 

§ xxxix.  The  school  of  architecture  which  we  have  just 
been  examining  is,  as  we  have  seen  above,  redeemed  from 
severe  condemnation  by  its  careful  and  noble  use  of  inlaid 
marbles  as  a means  of  color.  From  that  time  forward,  this 
art  has  been  unknown,  or  despised  ; the  frescoes  of  the  swift 
and  daring  Venetian  painters  long  contended  with  the  inlaid 
marbles,  outvying  them  with  color,  indeed  more  glorious  than 
theirs,  but  fugitive  as  the  hues  of  woods  in  autumn  ; and, 
at  last,  as  the  art  itself  of  painting  in  this  mighty  manner 
tailed  from  among  men,|  the  modern  decorative  system  estab- 


There  may , however,  he  a kind  of  dishonesty  even  in  the  use  of 
marble,  if  it  is  attempted  to  make  the  marble  look  like  something  else, 
bee  the  final  or  Venetian  Index  under  head  “ Scalzi.” 
t Appendix  5,  “ Renaissance  Side  of  Ducal  Palace.” 

O Vw?;e’  “ far  as  1 kn0W’  at  Present  am011s  "s-  only  one  painter, 

' ; ,tts’  who  1S  caP‘ff>le  of  design  in  color  on  a large  scale.  He 

stands  alone  among  our  artists  of  the  old  school,  in  his  perception  of  the 
value  or  breadth  in  distant  masses,  and  in  the  vigor  of  invention  by 
which  such  breadth  must  be  sustained  ; and  his  power  of  expression 


so 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


lished  itself,  which  united  the  meaninglessness  of  the  veined 
marble  with  the  evanescence  of  the  fresco,  and  completed  the 
harmony  by  falsehood. 

§ xl.  Since  first,  in  the  second  chapter  of  the  “ Seven 
Lamps,”  I endeavored  to  show  the  culpableness,  as  well  as  the 
baseness,  of  our  common  modes  of  decoration  by  painted  imi- 
tation of  various  woods  or  marbles,  the  subject  has  been  dis- 
cussed in  various  architectural  works,  and  is  evidently  becom- 
ing one  of  daily  increasing  interest.  When  it  is  considered 
how  many  persons  there  are  whose  means  of  livelihood  con- 
sist altogether  in  these  spurious  arts,  and  how  difficult  it  is, 
even  for  the  most  candid,  to  admit  a conviction  contrary  both 
to  their  interests  and  to  their  inveterate  habits  of  practice 
and  thought,  it  is  rather  a matter  of  wonder,  that  the  cause 
of  Truth  should  have  found  even  a few  maintainers,  than  that 
it  should  have  encountered  a host  of  adversaries.  It  has, 
however,  been  defended  repeatedly  by  architects  themselves, 
and  so  successfully,  that  I believe,  so  far  as  the  desirableness 
of  this  or  that  method  of  ornamentation  is  to  be  measured  by 
the  fact  of  its  simple  honesty  or  dishonesty,  there  is  little 
need  to  add  anything  to  what  has  been  already  urged  upon 
the  subject.  But  there  are  some  points  connected  with  the 
practice  of  imitating  marble,  which  I have  been  unable  to 
touch  upon  until  now,  and  by  the  consideration  of  which  we 
may  be  enabled  to  see  something  of  the  policy  of  honesty 
in  this  matter,  without  in  the  least  abandoning  the  higher 
ground  of  principle. 

§ xli.  Consider,  then,  first,  what  marble  seems  to  have  been 
made  for.  Over  the  greater  part  of  the  surface  of  the  world, 
we  find  that  a rock  has  been  providentially  distributed,  in  a 
manner  particularly  pointing  it  out  as  intended  for  the  service 
of  man.  Not  altogether  a common  rock,  it  is  yet  rare  enough 
to  command  a certain  degree  of  interest  and  attention  where- 

and  depth  of  thought  are  not  less  remarkable  than  his  bold  conception 
of  color  effect.  Very  probably  some  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites  have  th8 
gift  also  ; I am  nearly  certain  than  Rosetti  has  it,  and  I think  also  Mil 
lais  ; but  the  experiment  has  yet  to  be  tried.  I wish  it  could  be  made 
in  Mr.  Hope’s  church  in  Margaret  Street. 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


31 


ever  it  is  found  ; but  not  so  rare  as  to  preclude  its  use  fo*. 
any  purpose  to  which  it  is  fitted.  It  is  exactly  of  the  con- 
sistence which  is  best  adapted  for  sculpture  : that  is  to  say, 
neither  hard  nor  brittle,  nor  flaky  nor  splintery,  but  uniform, 
and  delicately,  yet  not  ignobly,  soft, — exactly  soft  enough  to 
allow  the  sculptor  to  work  it  without  force,  and  trace  on  it 
the  finest  lines  of  finished  form  ; and  yet  so  hard  as  never  to 
betray  the  touch  or  moulder  away  beneath  the  steel ; and  so 
admirably  crystallized,  and  of  such  permanent  elements,  that 
no  rains  dissolve  it,  no  time  changes  it,  no  atmosphere  de- 
composes it : once  shaped,  it  is  shaped  for  ever,  unless  sub- 
jected to  actual  violence  or  attrition.  This  rock,  then,  is  pre- 
pared by  Nature  for  the  sculptor  and  architect,  just  as  paper 
is  prepared  by  the  manufacturer  for  the  artist,  with  as  great 
— nay,  with  greater — care,  and  more  perfect  adaptation  of  the 
material  to  the  requirements.  And  of  this  marble  paper, 
some  is  white  and  some  colored  ; but  more  is  colored  than 
white,  because  the  white  is  evidently  meant  for  sculpture,  and 
the  colored  for  the  covering  of  large  surfaces. 

§ xui.  Now,  if  we  would  take  Nature  at  her  word,  and  use 
this  precious  paper  which  she  has  taken  so  much  care  to  pro- 
vide for  us  (it  is  a long  process,  the  making  of  that  paper  ; 
the  pulp  of  it  needing  the  subtlest  possible  solution,  and  the 
pressing  of  it — for  it  is  all  hot-pressed — having  to  be  done 
under  the  saw,  or  under  something  at  least  as  heavy)  ; if,  I 
say,  we  use  it  as  Nature  would  have  us,  consider  what  ad- 
vantages would  follow.  The  colors  of  marble  are  mingled  for 
us  just  as  if  on  a prepared  palette.  They  are  of  all  shades 
and  hues  (except  bad  ones),  some  being  united  and  even,  some 
broken,  mixed,  and  interrupted,  in  order  to  supply,  as  far 
as  possible,  the  want  of  the  painter’s  power  of  breaking  and 
mingling  the  color  with  the  brush.  But  there  is  more  in  the 
colors  than  this  delicacy  of  adaptation.  There  is  history  in 
them.  By  the  manner  in  which  they  are  arranged  in  every 
piece  of  marble,  they  record  the  means  by  which  that  marble 
has  been  produced,  and  the  successive  changes  through  which 
it  has  passed.  And  in  all  their  veins  and  zones,  and  flame  ■ 
like  stainings,  or  broken  and  disconnected  lines,  they  write 


32 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


various  legends,  never  untrue,  of  the  former  political  state  of 
the  mountain  kingdom  to  which  they  belonged,  of  its  in- 
firmities and  fortitudes,  convulsions  and  consolidations,  from 
the  beginning  of  time. 

Now,  if  we  were  never  in  the  habit  of  seeing  anything  but 
real  marbles,  this  language  of  theirs  would  soon  begin  to  be 
understood  ; that  is  to  say,  even  the  least  observant  of  us 
would  recognize  such  and  such  stones  as  forming  a peculiar 
class,  and  would  begin  to  inquire  where  they  came  from,  and, 
at  last,  take  some  feeble  interest  in  the  main  question,  Why 
they  were  only  to  be  found  in  that  or  the  other  place,  and 
how  they  came  to  make  a part  of  this  mountain,  and  not  of 
that  ? And  in  a little  while,  it  would  not  be  possible  to  stand 
for  a moment  at  a shop  door,  leaning  against  the  pillars  of  it, 
without  remembering  or  questioning  of  something  well  worth 
the  memory  or  the  inquiry,  touching  the  hills  of  Italy,  or 
Greece,  or  Africa,  or  Spain  ; and  we  should  be  led  on  from 
knowledge  to  knowledge,  until  even  the  unsculptured  walls  of 
our  streets  became  to  us  volumes  as  precious  as  those  of  our 
libraries. 

§ xliii.  But  the  moment  we  admit  imitation  of  marble,  this 
source  of  knowledge  is  destroyed.  None  of  us  can  be  at  the 
pains  to  go  through  the  work  of  verification.  If  we  knew 
that  every  colored  stone  we  saw  was  natural,  certain  ques- 
tions, conclusions,  interests,  would  force  themselves  upon  us 
without  any  effort  of  our  own  ; but  we  have  none  of  us 
time  to  stop  in  the  midst  of  our  daily  business,  to  touch 
and  pore  over,  and  decide  with  painful  minuteness  of  investi- 
gation, whether  such  and  such  a pillar  be  stucco  or  stone. 
And  the  whole  field  of  this  knowledge,  which  Nature  intended 
us  to  possess  when  we  were  children,  is  hopelessly  shut  out 
from  us.  Worse  than  shut  out,  for  the  mass  of  coarse  imita- 
tions confuses  our  knowledge  acquired  from  other  sources  ; 
and  our  memory  of  the  marbles  we  have  perhaps  once  or 
twice  carefully  examined,  is  disturbed  and  distorted  by  the 
inaccuracy  of  the  imitations  which  are  brought  before  us  con- 
tinually. 

§ xliv . But  it  will  be  Said,  that  it  is  too  expensive  to  em< 


EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


33 


ploy  real  marbles  in  ordinary  cases.  It  may  be  so  : yet  not 
always  more  expensive  than  the  fitting  windows  with  enor- 
mous plate  glass,  and  decorating  them  with  elaborate  stucco 
mouldings  and  other  useless  sources  of  expenditure  in  modern 
building  ; nay,  not  always  in  the  end  more  expensive  than  the 
frequent  repainting  of  the  dingy  pillars,  which  a little  water 
dashed  against  them  would  refresh  from  day  to  day,  if 
they  were  of  true  stone.  But,  granting  that  it  be  so,  in  that 
very  costliness,  checking  their  common  use  in  certain  local- 
ities, is  part  of  the  interest  of  marbles,  considered  as  his- 
tory. Where  they  are  not  found,  Nature  has  supplied  other 
materials, — clay  for  brick,  or  forest  for  timber, — in  the  work- 
ing of  which  she  intends  other  characters  of  the  human  mind 
to  be  developed,  and  by  the  proper  use  of  which  certain 
local  advantages  will  assuredly  be  attained,  while  the  delight- 
fulness and  meaning  of  the  precious  marbles  will  be  felt 
more  forcibly  in  the  districts  where  they  occur,  or  on  the  oc- 
casions when  they  may  be  procured. 

§ xlv.  It  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  add,  that,  as  the  imi- 
tation of  marbles  interferes  with  and  checks  the  knowledge  of 
geography  and  geology,  so  the  imitation  of  wood  interferes 
with  that  of  botany  ; and  that  our  acquaintance  with  the 
nature,  uses,  and  manner  of  growth  of  the  timber  trees  of 
our  own  and  of  foreign  countries,  would  probably,  in  the  ma- 
jority of  cases,  become  accurate  and  extensive,  wdthout  any 
labor  or  sacrifice  of  time,  were  not  all  inquiry  checked,  and 
all  observation  betrayed,  by  the  wretched  labors  of  the 
“ Grainer.” 

§ xlvi.  But  this  is  not  all.  As  the  practice  of  imitation  re- 
tards knowledge,  so  also  it  retards  art. 

There  is  not  a meaner  occupation  for  the  human  mind  than 
the  imitation  of  the  stains  and  striae  of  marble  and  wood. 
When  engaged  in  any  easy  and  simple  mechanical  occupation, 
there  is  still  some  liberty  for  the  mind  to  leave  the  literal 
work  ; and  the  clash  of  the  loom  or  the  activity  of  the  fingers 
will  not  always  prevent  the  thoughts  from  some  happy  ex- 
patiation  in  their  own  domains.  But  the  grainer  must  think 
of  what  he  is  doing ; and  veritable  attention  and  care,  and  oc- 
Vol.  III. -3 


34 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


casionally  considerable  skill,  are  consumed  in  the  doing  of  a 
more  absolute  nothing  than  I can  name  in  any  other  depart- 
ment of  painful  idleness.  I know  not  anything  so  humiliat- 
ing as  to  see  a human  being,  with  arms  and  limbs  complete, 
and  apparently  a head,  and  assuredly  a soul,  yet  into  the 
hands  of  which  when  you  have  put  a brush  and  pallet,  it  can- 
not do  anything  with  them  but  imitate  a piece  of  wood.  It 
cannot  color,  it  has  no  ideas  of  color  ; it  cannot  draw,  it  has 
no  ideas  of  form  ; it  cannot  caricature,  it  has  no  ideas  of  hu- 
mor. It  is  incapable  of  anything  beyond  knots.  All  its 
achievement,  the  entire  result  of  the  daily  application  of  its 
imagination  and  immortality,  is  to  be  such  a piece  of  texture 
as  the  sun  and  dew  are  sucking  up  out  of  the  muddy  ground, 
and  weaving  together,  far  more  finely,  in  millions  of  millions 
of  growing  branches,  over  every  rood  of  waste  woodland  and 
shady  hill. 

§ xlvii.  But  what  is  to  be  done,  the  reader  asks,  with  men 
who  are  capable  of  nothing  else  than  this  ? Nay,  they  may 
be  capable  of  everything  else,  for  all  we  know,  and  what  we 
are  to  do  with  them  I will  try  to  say  in  the  next  chapter  ; but 
meanwhile  one  word  more  touching  the  higher  principles  of 
action  in  this  matter,  from  which  we  have  descended  to  those 
of  expediency.  I trust  that  some  day  the  language  of  Types 
will  be  more  read  and  understood  by  us  than  it  has  been  for 
centuries  ; and  when  this  language,  a better  one  than  either 
Greek  or  Latin,  is  again  recognized  amongst  us,  we  shall  find, 
or  remember,  that  as  the  other  visible  elements  of  the  universe 
— its  air,  its  water,  and  its  flame — set  forth,  in  their  pure 
energies,  the  life-giving,  purifying,  and  sanctifying  influences 
of  the  Deity  upon  His  creatures,  so  the  earth,  in  its  purity, 
sets  forth  His  eternity  and  His  Truth.  I have  dwelt  above 
on  the  historical  language  of  stones  ; let  us  not  forget  this, 
which  is  their  theological  language  ; and,  as  we  would  not 
wantonly  pollute  the  fresh  waters  wTlien  they  issue  forth  in 
their  clear  glory  from  the  rock,  nor  stay  the  mountain  winds 
into  pestilential  stagnancy,  nor  mock  the  sunbeams  with  arti- 
ficial and  ineffective  light ; so  let  us  not  by  our  own  base  and 
barren  falsehoods,  replace  the  crystalline  strength  and  burning 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


35 


color  of  the  earth  from  which  we  were  born,  and  to  which  we 
must  return  ; the  earth  which,  like  our  own  bodies,  though 
dust  in  its  degradation,  is  full  of  splendor  when  God’s  hand 
gathers  its  atoms  ; and  which  was  for  ever  sanctified  by  Him, 
as  the  symbol  no  less  of  His  love  than  of  His  truth,  when  He 
bade  the  high  priest  bear  the  names  of  the  Children  of  Israel 
on  the  clear  stones  of  the  Breastplate  of  Judgment. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 

§ i.  Of  all  the  buildings  in  Venice,  later  in  date  than  the 
final  additions  to  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  noblest  is,  beyond  all 
question,  that  which,  having  been  condemned  by  its  propri- 
etor, not  many  years  ago,  to  be  pulled  down  and  sold  for  the 
value  of  its  materials,  was  rescued  by  the  Austrian  govern- 
ment, and  appropriated — the  government  officers  having  no 
other  use  for  it — to  the  business  of  the  Post-Office  ; though 
still  known  to  the  gondolier  by  its  ancient  name,  the  Casa 
Grimani.  It  is  composed  of  three  stories  of  the  Corinthian 
order,  at  once  simple,  delicate,  and  sublime  ; but  on  so  colossal 
a scale,  that  the  three-storied  palaces  on  its  right  and  left  only 
reach  to  the  cornice  which  marks  the  level  of  its  first  floor. 
Yet  it  is  not  at  first  perceived  to  be  so  vast ; and  it  is  only 
when  some  expedient  is  employed  to  hide  it  from  the  eye, 
that  by  the  sudden  dwarfing  of  the  whole  reach  of  the  Grand 
Canal,  which  it  commands,  we  become  aware  that  it  is  to  the 
majesty  of  the  Casa  Grimani  that  the  Rialto  itself,  and  the 
whole  group  of  neighboring  buildings,  owe  the  greater  part  of 
their  impressiveness.  Nor  is  the  finish  of  its  details  less  nota- 
ble than  the  grandeur  of  their  scale.  There  is  not  an  erring 
line,  nor  a mistaken  proportion,  throughout  its  noble  front ; 
and  the  exceeding  fineness  of  the  chiselling  gives  an  appear- 
ance of  lightness  to  the  vast  blocks  of  stone  out  of  whose  per- 
fect union  that  front  is  composed.  The  decoration  is  sparing, 
but  delicate  : the  first  story  only  simpler  than  the  rest,  in  that  it 


36 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


has  pilasters  instead  of  shafts,  but  all  with  Corinthian  capitals, 
rich  in  leafage,  and  fruited  delicately  ; the  rest  of  the  walls 
flat  and  smooth,  and  the  mouldings  sharp  and  shallow,  so  that 
the  bold  shafts  look  like  crystals  of  beryl  running  through  a 
rock  of  quartz. 

§ n.  This  palace  is  the  principal  type  at  Venice,  and  one  of 
the  best  in  Europe,  of  the  central  architecture  of  the  Renais- 
sance schools  ; that  carefully  studied  and  perfectly  executed 
architecture  to  which  those  schools  owe  their  principal  claims 
to  our  respect,  and  which  became  the  model  of  most  of  the 
important  works  subsequently  produced  by  civilized  nations. 
I have  called  it  the  Roman  Renaissance,  because  it  is  founded, 
both  in  its  principles  of  superimposition,  and  in  the  style  of 
its  ornament,  upon  the  architecture  of  classic  Rome  at  its  best 
period.  The  revival  of  Latin  literature  both  led  to  its  adop- 
tion, and  directed  its  form  ; and  the  most  important  example 
of  it  which  exists  is  the  modern  Roman  basilica  of  St.  Peter’s. 
It  had,  at  its  Renaissance  or  new  birth,  no  resemblance  either 
to  Greek,  Gothic,  or  Byzantine  forms,  except  in  retaining  the 
use  of  the  round  arch,  vault,  and  dome  ; in  the  treatment  of 
all  details,  it  was  exclusively  Latin  ; the  last  links  of  connection 
with  mediaeval  tradition  having  been  broken  by  its  builders  in 
their  enthusiasm  for  classical  art,  and  the  forms  of  true  Greek 
or  Athenian  architecture  being  still  unknowm  to  them.  The 
study  of  these  noble  Greek  forms  has  induced  various  modifi- 
cations of  the  Renaissance  in  our  own  times  ; but  the  condi- 
tions which  are  found  most  applicable  to  the  uses  of  modern 
life  are  still  Roman,  and  the  entire  style  may  most  fitly  be 
expressed  by  the  term  “Roman  Renaissance.” 

§ iii.  It  is  this  style,  in  its  purity  and  fullest  form, — repre- 
sented by  such  buildings  as  the  Casa  Grimani  at  Venice  (built 
by  San  Micheli),  the  Town  Hall  at  Vicenza  (by  Palladio),  St. 
Peter’s  at  Rome  (by  Michael  Angelo),  St.  Paul’s  and  White- 
hall in  London  (by  Wren  and  Inigo  Jones), — which  is  the  true 
antagonist  of  the  Gothic  school.  The  intermediate,  or  cornqpt 
conditions  of  it,  though  multiplied  over  Europe,  are  no  longer 
admired  by  architects,  or  made  the  subjects  of  their  study  ; 
but  the  finished  work  of  this  central  school  is  still,  in  most 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


37 


cases,  the  model  set  before  the  student  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, as  opposed  to  those  Gothic,  Romanesque,  or  Byzantine 
forms  which  have  long  been  considered  barbarous,  and  are  so 
still  by  most  of  the  leading  men  of  the  day.  That  they  are, 
on  the  contrary,  most  noble  and  beautiful,  and  that  the  antag- 
onistic Renaissance  is,  in  the  main,  unworthy  and  unadmi- 
rable,  whatever  perfection  of  a certain  kind  it  may  possess,  it 
was  my  principal  purpose  to  show,  when  I first  undertook  the 
labor  of  this  work.  It  has  been  attempted  already  to  put 
before  the  reader  the  various  elements  which  unite  in  the 
Nature  of  Gothic,  and  to  enable  him  thus  to  judge,  not 
merely  of  the  beauty  of  the  forms  which  that  system  has 
produced  already,  but  of  its  future  applicability  to  the  wants 
of  mankind,  and  endless  power  over  their  hearts.  I would 
now  endeavor,  in  like  manner,  to  set  before  the  reader  the 
Nature  of  Renaissance,  and  thus  to  enable  him  to  compare  the 
two  styles  under  the  same  light,  and  with  the  same  enlarged 
view  of  their  relations  to  the  intellect,  and  capacities  for  the 
service,  of  man. 

§ iv.  It  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  enter  at  length  into 
any  examination  of  its  external  form.  It  uses,  whether  for 
its  roofs  of  aperture  or  roofs  proper,  the  low  gable  or  circular 
arch : but  it  differs  from  Romanesque  work  in  attaching  great 
importance  to  the  horizontal  lintel  or  architrave  above  the 
arch ; transferring  the  energy  of  the  principal  shafts  to  the 
supporting  of  this  horizontal  beam,  and  thus  rendering  the 
arch  a subordinate,  if  not  altogether  a superfluous,  feature. 
The  type  of  this  arrangement  has  been  given  already  at  c,  Fig. 
XXXVI.,  p.  150,  Vol.  I.  : and  I might  insist  at  length  upon 
the  absurdity  of  a construction  in  which  the  shorter  shaft, 
which  has  the  real  weight  of  wall  to  carry,  is  split  into  two 
by  the  taller  one,  which  has  nothing  to  carry  at  all, — that 
taller  one  being  strengthened,  nevertheless,  as  if  the  whole 
weight  of  the  building  bore  upon  it ; and  on  the  ungraceful- 
ness, never  conquered  in  any  Palladian  work,  of  the  two  half- 
capitals glued,  as  it  were,  against  the  slippery  round  sides  of 
the  central  shaft.  But  it  is  not  the  form  of  this  architecture 
against  which  I would  plead.  Its  defects  are  shared  by  many 


33 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


of  the  noblest  forms  of  earlier  building,  and  might  have  been 
entirely  atoned  for  by  excellence  of  sjoirit.  But  it  is  the  moral 
nature  of  it  which  is  corrupt,  and  which  it  must,  therefore,  be 
our  principal  business  to  examine  and  expose. 

§ y.  The  moral,  or  immoral,  elements  which  unite  to  form 
the  spirit  of  Central  Renaissance  architecture  are,  I believe, 
in  the  main,  two, — Bride  and  Infidelity  ; but  the  pride  resolves 
itself  into  three  main  branches, — Pride  of  Science,  Pride  of 
State,  and  Pride  of  System  : and  thus  we  have  four  separate 
mental  conditions  which  must  be  examined  successively. 

§ vi.  1.  Pride  of  Science.  It  would  have  been  more  char- 
itable, but  more  confusing,  to  have  added  another  element  to 
our  list,  namely  the  Love  of  Science  ; but  the  love  is  included 
in  the  pride,  and  is  usually  so  very  subordinate  an  • element 
that  it  does  not  deserve  equality  of  nomenclature.  But, 
whether  pursued  in  pride  or  in  affection  (how  far  by  either 
we  shall  see  presently),  the  first  notable  characteristic  of  the 
Renaissance  central  school  is  its  introduction  of  accurate 
knowledge  into  all  its  work,  so  far  as  it  possesses  such  knowl- 
edge ; and  its  evident  conviction,  that  such  science  is  neces- 
sary to  the  excellence  of  the  work,  and  is  the  first  thing  to  be 
expressed  therein.  So  that  all  the  forms  introduced,  even  in 
its  minor  ornament,  are  studied  with  the  utmost  care  ; the 
anatomy  of  all  animal  structure  is  thoroughly  understood  and 
elaborately  expressed,  and  the  whole  of  the  execution  skilful 
and  practised  in  the  highest  degree.  Perspective,  linear  and 
aerial,  perfect  drawing  and  accurate  light  and  shade  in  paint- 
ing, and  true  anatomy  in  all  representations  of  the  human 
form,  drawn  or  sculptured,  are  the  first  requirements  in  all 
the  work  of  this  school. 

§ vn.  Now,  first  considering  all  this  in  the  most  charitable 
light,  as  pursued  from  a real  love  of  truth,  and  not  from  van- 
ity, it  would,  of  course,  have  been  all  excellent  and  admirable, 
had  it  been  regarded  as  the  aid  of  art,  and  not  as  its  essence. 
But  the  grand  mistake  of  the  Renaissance  schools  lay  in  sup- 
posing that  science  and  art  are  the  same  things,  and  that  to 
advance  in  the  one  was  necessarily  to  perfect  the  other. 
Whereas  they  are,  in  reality,  things  not  only  different,  but  so 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE . 


39 


opposed,  that  to  advance  in  the  one  is,  in  ninety-nine  cases 
out  of  the  hundred,  to  retrograde  in  the  other.  This  is  the 
point  to  which  I would  at  present  especially  bespeak  the 
reader’s  attention. 

§ viii.  Science  and  art  are  commonly  distinguished  by  the 
nature  of  their  actions  ; the  one  as  knowing,  the  other  as 
changing,  producing,  or  creating.  But  there  is  a still  more 
important  distinction  in  the  nature  of  the  things  they  deal 
with.  Science  deals  exclusively  with  things  as  they  are  in 
themselves  ; and  art  exclusively  with  things  as  they  affect  the 
human  senses  and  human  soul.*  Her  work  is  to  portray  the 
appearance  of  things,  and  to  deepen  the  natural  impressions 
which  they  produce  upon  living  creatures.  The  work  of 
science  is  to  substitute  facts  for  appearances,  and  demonstra- 
tions for  impressions.  Both,  observe,  are  equally  concerned 
with  truth  ; the  one  with  truth  of  aspect',  the  other  with  truth 
of  essence.  Art  does  not  represent  things  falsely,  but  truly 
as  they  appear  to  mankind.  Science  studies  the  relations  of 
things  to  each  other  : but  art  studies  only  their  relations  to 
man  ; and  it  requires  of  everything  which  is  submitted  to  it 
imperatively  this,  and  only  this, — what  that  thing  is  to  the 
human  eyes  and  human  heart,  what  it  has  to  say  to  men,  and 
what  it  can  become  to  them  : a field  of  question  just  as  much 
vaster  than  that  of  science,  as  the  soul  is  larger  than  the 
material  creation. 

§ ix.  Take  a single  instance.  Science  informs  us  that  the 
sun  is  ninety -five  millions  of  miles  distant  from,  and  111  times 
broader  than,  the  earth  ; that  we  and  all  the  planets  revolve 
round  it ; and  that  it  revolves  on  its  own  axis  in  25  days,  14 
hours  and  4 minutes.  With  all  this,  art  has  nothing  whatso- 
ever to  do.  It  has  no  care  to  know  anything  of  this  kind. 
But  the  things  which  it  does  care  to  know,  are  these  : that  in 
the  heavens  God  hath  set  a tabernacle  for  the  sun,  “ which  is 

* Or,  more  briefly,  science  has  to  do  with  facts,  art  with  phenomena. 
To  science,  phenomena  are  of  use  only  as  they  lead  to  facts  ; and  to  art 
facts  are  of  use  only  as  they  lead  to  phenomena.  I use  the  word  “ art” 
here  with  reference  to  the  line  arts  only,  for  the  lower  arts  of  mechani- 
cal production  I should  reserve  the  word  “manufacture.” 


40 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


as  a bridegroom  coming  out  of  his  chamber,  and  rejoice th  as 
a strong  man  to  run  a race.  His  going  forth  is  from  the  end 
of  the  heaven,  and  his  circuit  unto  the  ends  of  it,  and  there  is 
nothing  hid  from  the  heat  thereof.  ” 

§ x.  This,  then,  being  the  kind  of  truth  with  which  art  is 
exclusively  concerned,  how  is  such  truth  as  this  to  be  ascer- 
tained and  accumulated  ? Evidently,  and  only,  by  perception 
and  feeling.  Never  either  by  reasoning,  or  report.  Nothing 
must  come  between  Nature  and  the  artist’s  sight ; nothing  be- 
tween God  and  the  artist’s  soul.  Neither  calculation  nor 
hearsay, — be  it  the  most  subtle  of  calculations,  or  the  wisest 
of  sayings, — may  be  allowed  to  come  between  the  universe, 
and  the  witness  which  art  bears  to  its  visible  nature.  The 
whole  value  of  that  witness  depends  on  its  being  eye- witness  ; 
the  whole  genuineness,  acceptableness,  and  dominion  of  it 
depend  on  the  personal  assurance  of  the  man  who  utters  it. 
All  its  victory  depends  on  the  veracity  of  the  one  preceding 
word,  “ Vidi.” 

The  whole  function  of  the  artist  in  the  world  is  to  be  a see- 
ing and  feeling  creature  ; to  be  an  instrument  of  such  tender- 
ness and  sensitiveness,  that  no  shadow,  no  hue,  no  line,  no 
instantaneous  and  evanescent  expression  of  the  visible  things 
around  him,  nor  any  of  the  emotions  which  they  are  capable 
of  conveying  to  the  spirit  which  has  been  given  him,  shall 
either  be  left  unrecorded,  or  fade  from  the  book  of  record. 
It  is  not  his  business  either  to  think,  to  judge,  to  argue,  or  to 
know.  His  place  is  neither  in  the  closet,  nor  on  the  bench, 
nor  at  the  bar,  nor  in  the  library.  They  are  for  other  men 
and  other  work.  He  may  think,  in  a by-way ; reason,  now 
and  then,  when  he  has  nothing  better  to  do  ; know,  such  frag- 
ments of  knowledge  as  he  can  gather  without  stooping,  or 
reach  without  pains  ; but  none  of  these  things  are  to  be  his 
care.  The  work  of  his  life  is  to  be  two-fold  only  : to  see,  to 
feel. 

§ xi.  Nay,  but,  the  reader  perhaps  pleads  with  me,  one  of 
the  great  uses  of  knowledge  is  to  open  the  eyes ; to  make 
things  perceivable  which  never  would  have  been  seen,  unless 
first  they  had  been  known. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


41 


Not  so.  This  could  only  be  said  or  believed  by  those  who 
do  not  know  what  the  perceptive  faculty  of  a great  artist  is, 
in  comparison  with  that  of  other  men.  There  is  no  great 
painter,  no  great  workman  in  any  art,  but  he  sees  more  with 
the  glance  of  a moment  than  he  could  learn  by  the  labor  of  a 
thousand  hours.  God  has  made  every  man  fit  for  his  work  : 
He  has  given  to  the  man  whom  he  means  for  a student,  the 
reflective,  logical,  sequential  faculties  ; and  to  the  man  whom 
He  means  for  an  artist,  the  perceptive,  sensitive,  retentive  fac- 
ulties. And  neither  of  these  men,  so  far  from  being  able  to 
do  the  other’s  work,  can  even  comprehend  the  way  in  which 
it  is  done.  The  student  has  no  understanding  of  the  vision, 
nor  the  painter  of  the  process  ; but  chiefly  the  student  has  no 
idea  of  the  colossal  grasp  of  the  true  painter’s  vision  and  sen- 
sibility. 

The  labor  of  the  whole  Geological  Society,  for  the  last  fifty 
years,  has  but  now  arrived  at  the  ascertainment  of  those 
truths  respecting  mountain  form  which  Turner  saw  and  ex- 
pressed with  a few  strokes  of  a camel’s  hair  pencil  fifty  years 
ago,  when  he  was  a boy.  The  knowledge  of  all  the  laws  of 
the  planetary  system,  and  of  all  the  curves  of  the  motion  of 
projectiles,  would  never  enable  the  man  of  science  to  draw  a 
waterfall  or  a wave ; and  all  the  members  of  Surgeons’  Hall 
helping  each  other  could  not  at  this  moment  see,  or  represent, 
the  natural  movement  of  a human  body  in  vigorous  action,  as 
a poor  dyer’s  son  did  two  hundred  years  ago.* 

§ xii.  But  surely,  it  is  still  insisted,  granting  this  peculiar 
faculty  to  the  painter,  he  will  still  see  more  as  he  knows  more, 
and  the  more  knowledge  he  obtains,  therefore,  the  better. 
No ; not  even  so.  It  is  indeed  true,  that,  here  and  there,  a 
piece  of  knowledge  will  enable  the  eye  to  detect  a truth  which 
might  otherwise  have  escaped  it ; as,  for  instance,  in  watching 
a sunrise,  the  knowledge  of  the  true  nature  of  the  orb  may 
lead  the  painter  to  feel  more  profoundly,  and  express  more 
fully,  the  distance  between  the  bars  of  cloud  that  cross  it,  and 
the  sphere  of  flame  that  lifts  itself  slowly  beyond  them  into 


* Tin  tor  et. 


42 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  infinite  heaven.  But,  for  one  visible  truth  to  which  knowh 
edge  thus  opens  the  eyes,  it  seals  them  to  a thousand  : that 
is  to  say,  if  the  knowledge  occur  to  the  mind  so  as  to  occupy 
its  powers  of  contemplation  at  the  moment  when  the  sight 
work  is  to  be  done,  the  mind  retires  inward,  fixes  itself  upon 
the  known  fact,  and  forgets  the  passing  visible  ones ; and  a 
moment  of  such  forgetfulness  loses  more  to  the  painter  than  a 
day’s  thought  can  gain.  This  is  no  new  or  strange  assertion. 
Every  person  accustomed  to  careful  reflection  of  any  kind, 
knows  that  its  natural  operation  is  to  close  his  eyes  to  the  ex- 
ternal world.  While  he  is  thinking  deeply,  he  neither  sees 
nor  feels,  even  though  naturally  he  may  possess  strong  powers 
of  sight  and  emotion.  He  who,  having  journeyed  all  day  be- 
side the  Leman  Lake,  asked  of  his  companions,  at  evening, 
where  it  wras,*  probably  was  not  wanting  in  sensibility  ; but 
he  w7as  generally  a thinker,  not  a perceiver.  And  this  instance 
is  only  an  extreme  one  of  the  effect  which,  in  all  cases,  knowl- 
edge, becoming  a subject  of  reflection,  produces  upon  the 
sensitive  faculties.  It  must  be  but  poor  and  lifeless  knowl- 
edge, if  it  has  no  tendency  to  force  itself  forward,  and  become 
ground  for  reflection,  in  despite  of  the  succession  of  external 
objects.  It  will  not  obey  their  succession.  The  first  that 
comes  gives  it  food  enough  for  its  day’s  work  ; it  is  its  habit, 
its  duty,  to  cast  the  rest  aside,  and  fasten  upon  that.  The 
first  thing  that  a thinking  and  knowing  man  sees  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  he  will  not  easily  quit.  It  is  not  his  way  to  quit 
anything  without  getting  to  the  bottom  of  it,  if  possible. 
But  the  artist  is  bound  to  receive  all  things  on  the  broad, 
white,  lucid  field  of  his  soul,  not  to  grasp  at  one.  For  in- 
stance, as  the  knowing  and  thinking  man  watches  the  sunrise, 
he  sees  something  in  the  color  of  a ray,  or  the  change  of  a 
cloud,  that  is  new  to  him  ; and  this  he  follows  out  forthwith 
into  a labyrinth  of  optical  and  pneumatical  laws,  perceiving 
no  more  clouds  nor  rays  all  the  morning.  But  the  painter 
must  catch  all  the  rays,  all  the  colors  that  come,  and  see  them 
all  truly,  all  in  their  real  relations  and  succession  ; therefore, 


* St  Bernard. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


43 


everything  that  occupies  room  in  his  mind  he  must  cast  aside 
for  the  time,  as  completely  as  may  be.  The  thoughtful  man 
is  gone  far  away  to  seek  ; but  the  perceiving  man  must  sit 
still,  and  open  his  heart  to  receive.  The  thoughtful  man  is 
knitting  and  sharpening  himself  into  a two-edged  sword, 
wherewith  to  pierce.  The  perceiving  man  is  stretching  him- 
self into  a four-cornered  sheet  wherewith  to  catch.  And  all 
the  breadth  to  which  he  can  expand  himself,  and  all  the  white 
emptiness  into  which  he  can  blanch  himself,  will  not  be 
enough  to  receive  what  God  has  to  give  him. 

§ xiii.  What,  then,  it  will  be  indignantly  asked,  is  an  ut- 
terly ignorant  and  unthinking  man  likely  to  make  the  best 
artist  ? No,  not  so  neither.  Knowledge  is  good  for  him  so 
long  as  he  can  keep  it  utterly,  servilely,  subordinate  to  his  own 
divine  work,  and  trample  it  under  his  feet,  and  out  of  his  way, 
the  moment  it  is  likely  to  entangle  him. 

And  in  this  respect,  observe,  there  is  an  enormous  differ- 
ence between  knowledge  and  education.  An  artist  need  not 
be  a learned  man,  in  all  probability  it  will  be  a disadvantage 
to  him  to  become  so  ; but  he  ought,  if  possible,  always  to  be 
an  educated  man  : that  is,  one  who  has  understanding  of  his 
own  uses  and  duties  in  the  world,  and  therefore  of  the  gen- 
eral nature  of  the  things  done  and  existing  in  the  world  ; and 
who  has  so  trained  himself,  or  been  trained,  as  to  turn  to  the 
best  and  most  courteous  account  whatever  faculties  or  knowl- 
edge he  has.  The  mind  of  an  educated  man  is  greater  than 
the  knowledge  it  possesses  ; it  is  like  the  vault  of  heaven,  en- 
compassing the  earth  which  lives  and  flourishes  beneath  it : 
but  the  mind  of  an  educated  and  learned  man  is  like  a caout- 
chouc band,  with  an  everlasting  spirit  of  contraction  in  it, 
fastening  together  papers  which  it  cannot  open,  and  keeps 
others  from  opening. 

Half  our  artists  are  ruined  for  want  of  education,  and  by 
the  possession  of  knowledge  ; the  best  that  I have  known 
have  been  educated,  and  illiterate.  The  ideal  of  an  artist, 
however,  is  not  that  he  should  be  illiterate,  but  well  read  in 
the  best  books,  and  thoroughly  high  bred,  both  in  heart  and 


44 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


in  bearing.  In  a word,  lie  should  be  fit  for  the  best  society, 

and  should  keep  out  of  it.* 

§ xiv.  There  are,  indeed,  some  kinds  of  knowledge  with 
which  an  artist  ought  to  be  thoroughly  furnished  ; those,  for 
instance,  which  enable  him  to  express  himself  ; for  this  knowl- 
edge relieves  instead  of  encumbering  his  mind,  and  permits  it 
to  attend  to  its  purposes  instead  of  wearying  itself  about  means. 
The  whole  mystery  of  manipulation  and  manufacture  should 
be  familiar  to  the  painter  from  a child.  He  should  know  the 
chemistry  of  all  colors  and  materials  whatsoever,  and  should 
prepare  all  his  colors  himself,  in  a little  laboratory  of  his 
own.  Limiting  his  chemistry  to  this  one  object,  the  amount 
of  practical  science  necessary  for  it,  and  such  accidental  dis- 
coveries as  might  fall  in  his  way  in  the  course  of  his  work,  of 
better  colors  or  better  methods  of  preparing  them,  would  be 
an  infinite  refreshment  to  his  mind  ; a minor  subject  of 
interest  to  which  it  might  turn  when  jaded  with  comfortless 
labor,  or  exhausted  with  feverish  invention,  and  yet  which 
would  never  interfere  with  its  higher  functions,  when  it  chose 
to  address  itself  to  them.  Even  a considerable  amount  of 
manual  labor,  sturdy  color-grinding  and  canvas-stretching, 
would  be  advantageous  ; though  this  kind  of  work  ought  to 
be  in  great  part  done  by  pupils.  For  it  is  one  of  the  condi- 
tions of  perfect  knowledge  in  these  matters,  that  every  great 
master  should  have  a certain  number  of  pupils,  to  whom  he  is 
to  impart  all  the  knowledge  of  materials  and  means  which  he 
himself  possesses,  as  soon  as  possible  ; so  that,  at  any  rate,  by 
the  time  they  are  fifteen  years  old,  they  may  know  all  that  he 
knows  himself  in  this  kind  ; that  is  to  say,  all  that  the  world 
of  artists  know,  and  his  own  discoveries  besides,  and  so  never 
be  troubled  about  methods  any  more.  Not  that  the  knowledge 
even  of  his  own  particular  methods  is  to  be  of  purpose  confined 
to  himself  and  his  pupils,  but  that  necessarily  it  must  be  so  in 

* Society  always  lias  a destructive  influence  upon  an  artist  : first  by 
its  sympathy  with  his  meanest  jiowers  ; secondly,  by  its  chilling  want  of 
understanding  of  his  greatest ; and,  thirdly,  by  its  vain  occupation  of 
his  time  and  thoughts.  Of  course  a painter  of  men  must  be  among 
men  ; but  it  ought  to  be  as  a watcher,  not  as  a companion. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


45 


some  degree  ; for  only  those  who  see  him  at  work  daily  can 
understand  his  small  and  multitudinous  ways  of  practice. 
These  cannot  verbally  be  explained  to  everybody,  nor  is  it 
needful  that  they  should,  only  let  them  be  concealed  from 
nobody  who  cares  to  see  them  ; in  which  case,  of  course,  his 
attendant  scholars  will  know  them  best.  But  all  that  can  be 
made  public  in  matters  of  this  kind  should  be  so  with  all  speed, 
every  artist  throwing  his  discovery  into  the  common  stock,  and 
the  whole  body  of  artists  taking  such  pains  in  this  department 
of  science  as  that  there  shall  be  no  unsettled  questions  about 
any  known  material  or  method  : that  it  shall  be  an  entirely 
ascertained  and  indisputable  matter  which  is  the  best  white, 
and  which  the  best  brown  ; which  the  strongest  canvas,  and 
safest  varnish  ; and  which  the  shortest  and  most  perfect  way 
of  doing  everything  known  up  to  that  time  : and  if  any  one 
discovers  a better,  he  is  to  make  it  public  forthwith.  All  of 
them  taking  care  to  embarrass  themselves  with  no  theories  or 
reasons  for  anything,  but  to  work  empirically  only  : it  not 
being  in  any  wise  their  business  to  know  whether  light  moves 
in  rays  or  in  waves  ; or  whether  the  blue  rays  of  the  spectrum 
move  slower  or  faster  than  the  rest ; but  simply  to  know  how 
many  minutes  and  seconds  such  and  such  a powder  must  be 
calcined,  to  give  the  brightest  blue. 

§ xv.  Now  it  is  perhaps  the  most  exquisite  absurdity  of  the 
whole  Renaissance  system,  that  while  it  has  encumbered  the 
artist  with  every  species  of  knowledge  that  is  of  no  use  to  him, 
this  one  precious  and  necessary  knowledge  it  has  utterly  lost. 
There  is  not,  I believe,  at  this  moment,  a single  question  which 
could  be  put  respecting  pigments  and  methods,  on  which  the 
body  of  living  artists  would  agree  in  their  answers.  The  lives 
of  artists  are  passed  in  fruitless  experiments  ; fruitless,  because 
undirected  by  experience  and  uncommunicated  in  their  results. 
Every  man  has  methods  of  his  own,  which  he  knows  to  be 
insufficient,  and  yet  jealously  conceals  from  his  fellow-work- 
men : every  colorman  has  materials  of  his  own,  to  which  it  is 
rare  that  the  artist  can  trust : and  in  the  very  front  of  the 
majestic  advance  of  chemical  science,  the  empirical  science  of 
the  artist  has  been  annihilated,  and  the  days  which  should 


46 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


have  led  us  to  higher  perfection  are  passed  in  guessing  at,  oi 
in  mourning  over,  lost  processes ; while  the  so-called  Dark 
ages,  possessing  no  more  knowledge  of  chemistry  than  a vil- 
lage herbalist  does  now,  discovered,  established,  and  put  into 
daily  practice  such  methods  of  operation  as  have  made  their 
work,  at  this  day,  the  despair  of  all  who  look  upon  it. 

§ xvi.  And  yet  even  this,  to  the  painter,  the  safest  of 
sciences,  and  in  some  degree  necessary,  has  its  temptations, 
and  capabilities  of  abuse.  For  the  simplest  means  are  always 
enough  for  a great  man  ; and  when  once  he  has  obtained  a few 
ordinary  colors,  which  he  is  sure  will  stand,  and  a white  sur- 
face that  will  not  darken,  nor  moulder,  nor  rend,  he  is  master 
of  the  world  and  of  his  fellow-men.  And,  indeed,  as  if  in 
these  times  we  were  bent  on  furnishing  examples  of  every 
species  of  opposite  error,  while  we  have  suffered  the  traditions 
to  escape  us  of  the  simple  methods  of  doing  simple  things, 
which  are  enough  for  all  the  arts,  and  to  all  the  ages,  we  have 
set  ourselves  to  discover  fantastic  modes  of  doing  fantastic 
things, — new  mixtures  and  manipulations  of  metal,  and  porce- 
lain, and  leather,  and  paper,  and  every  conceivable  condition 
of  false  substance  and  cheap  work,  to  our  own  infinitely  mul- 
tiplied confusion, — blinding  ourselves  daily  more  and  more  to 
the  great,  changeless,  and  inevitable  truth,  that  there  is  but 
one  goodness  in  art ; and  that  is  one  which  the  chemist  can- 
not prepare,  nor  the  merchant  cheapen,  for  it  comes  only  of  a 
rare  human  hand,  and  rare  human  soul. 

§ xvii.  Within  its  due  limits,  however,  here  is  one  branch 
of  science  which  the  artist  may  pursue  ; and,  within  limits 
still  more  strict,  another  also,  namely,  the  science  of  the 
appearances  of  things  as  they  have  been  ascertained  and  regis- 
tered by  his  fellow-men.  For  no  day  passes  but  some  visible 
fact  is  pointed  out  to  us  by  others,  which,  without  their  help, 
we  should  not  have  noticed  ; and  the  accumulation  and  gen- 
eralization of  visible  facts  have  formed,  in  the  succession  of 
ages,  the  sciences  of  light  and  shade,  and  perspective,  linear 
and  aerial : so  that  the  artist  is  now  at  once  put  in  possession 
of  certain  truths  respecting  the  appearances  of  things,  which* 
so  pointed  out  to  him,  any  man  may  in  a few  days  understand 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


47 


and  acknowledge  ; but;  which,  without  aid,  he  could  not  prob- 
ably discover  in  his  lifetime.  I say,  probably  could  not,  be- 
cause the  time  which  the  history  of  art  shows  us  to  have  been 
actually  occupied  in  the  discovery  and  systematisation  of  such 
truth,  is  no  measure  of  the  time  necessary  for  such  discovery. 
The  lengthened  period  which  elapsed  between  the  earliest  and 
the  perfect  development  of  the  science  of  light  (if  I may  so 
call  it)  was  not  occupied  in  the  actual  effort  to  ascertain  its 
laws,  but  in  acquiring  the  disposition  to  malce  that  effort.  It 
did  not  take  five  centuries  to  find  out  the  appearance  of 
natural  objects  ; but  it  took  five  centuries  to  make  people 
care  about  representing  them.  An  artist  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury did  not  desire  to  represent  nature.  His  wrork  wras  sym- 
bolical and  ornamental.  So  long  as  it  was  intelligible  and 
lovely,  he  had  no  care  to  make  it  like  nature.  As,  for  instance, 
when  an  old  painter  represented  the  glory  round  a saint’s 
head  by  a burnished  plate  of  pure  gold,  he  had  no  intention 
of  imitating  an  effect  of  light.  He  meant  to  tell  the  spectator 
that  the  figure  so  decorated  was  a saint,  and  to  produce 
splendor  of  effect  by  the  golden  circle.  It  was  no  matter  to 
him  what  light  was  like.  So  soon  as  it  entered  into  his  inten- 
tion to  represent  the  appearance  of  light,  he  was  not  long  in 
discovering  the  natural  facts  necessary  for  his  purpose. 

§ xviii.  But,  this  being  fully  allowed,  it  is  still  true  that 
the  accumulation  of  facts  now  known  respecting  visible  phe- 
nomena, is  greater  than  any  man  could  hope  to  gather  for  him- 
self, and  that  it  is  well  for  him  to  be  made  acquainted  with 
them  ; provided  always,  that  he  receive  them  only  at  their 
true  value,  and  do  not  suffer  himself  to  be  misled  by  them.  I 
say,  at  their  true  value  ; that  is,  an  exceedingly  small  one. 
All  the  information  which  men  can  receive  from  the  accumu- 
lated experience  of  others,  is  of  no  use  but  to  enable  them 
more  quickly  and  accurately  to  see  for  themselves.  It  will  in 
no  wise  take  the  place  of  this  personal  sight.  Nothing  can  be 
done  well  in  art,  except  by  vision.  Scientific  principles  and 
experiences  are  helps  to  the  eye,  as  a microscope  is  ; and  they 
are  of  exactly  as  much  use  without  the  eye.  No  science  of 
perspective,  or  Gf  anything  else,  will  enable  us  to  draw  the 


48 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


simplest  natural  line  accurately,  unless  we  see  it  and  feel  it 
Science  is  soon  at  lier  wits’  end.  All  the  professors  of  per- 
spective in  Europe,  could  not,  by  perspective,  draw  the  line  of 
curve  of  a sea  beach  ; nay,  could  not  outline  one  pool  of  the 
quiet  water  left  among  the  sand.  The  eye  and  hand  can  do  it, 
nothing  else.  All  the  rules  of  aerial  perspective  that  ever 
were  written,  will  not  tell  me  how  sharply  the  pines  on  the 
hill-top  are  drawn  at  this  moment  on  the  sky.  I shall  know 
if  I see  them,  and  love  them  ; not  till  then.  I may  study  the 
laws  of  atmospheric  gradation  for  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
and  I shall  not  be  able  to  draw  so  much  as  a brick-kiln 
through  its  own  smoke,  unless  I look  at  it  ; and  that  in  an  en- 
tirely humble  and  unscientific  manner,  ready  to  see  all  that 
the  smoke,  my  master,  is  ready  to  show  me,  and  expecting  to 
see  nothing  more. 

§ xix.  So  that  all  the  knowledge  a man  has  must  be  held 
cheap,  and  neither  trusted  nor  respected,  the  moment  he 
comes  face  to  face  with  Nature.  If  it  help  him,  well ; if  not, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  thrust  itself  upon  him  in  an  impertinent 
and  contradictory  temper,  and  venture  to  set  itself  in  the 
slightest  degree  in  opposition  to,  or  comparison  with,  his  sight, 
let  it  be  disgraced  forthwith.  And  the  slave  is  less  likely  to 
take  too  much  upon  herself,  if  she  has  not  been  bought  for  a 
high  price.  All  the  knowledge  an  artist  needs,  will,  in  these 
days,  come  to  him  almost  without  his  seeking  ; if  he  has  far  to 
look  for  it,  he  may  be  sure  he  does  not  want  it.  Prout  became 
Prout,  without  knowing  a single  rule  of  perspective  to  the  end 
of  his  days  ; and  all  the  perspective  in  the  Encyclopaedia  will 
never  produce  us  another  Prout. 

§ xx.  And  observe,  also,  knowledge  is  not  only  very  often 
unnecessary,  but  it  is  often  untrustworthy.  It  is  inaccurate, 
and  betrays  us  where  the  eye  would  have  been  true  to  us.  Let 
us  take  the  single  instance  of  the  knowledge  of  aerial  perspec- 
tive, of  which  the  moderns  are  so  proud,  and  see  how  it  betrays 
us  in  various  ways.  First  by  the  conceit  of  it,  which  often^ 
prevents  our  enjoying  work  in  which  higher  and  better  things 
were  thought  of  than  effects  of  mist.  The  other  day  I showed 
a fine  impression  of  Albert  Durer’s  “ St.  Hubert  ” to  a modern 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE . 


49 


engraver,  wlio  had  never  seen  it  nor  any  other  of  Albert 
Durer’s  works.  He  looked  at  it  for  a minute  contemptuously, 
then  turned  away  : “ Ah,  I see  that  man  did  not  know  much 
about  aerial  perspective  ! ” All  the  glorious  work  and  thought 
of  the  mighty  master,  all  the  redundant  landscape,  the  living 
vegetation,  the  magnificent  truth  of  line,  were  dead  letters  to 
him,  because  he  happened  to  have  been  taught  one  particular 
piece  of  knowledge  which  Durer  despised. 

§ xxi.  But  not  only  in  the  conceit  of  it,  but  in  the  inaccu- 
racy of  it,  this  science  betrays  us.  Aerial  perspective,  as  given 
by  the  modern  artist,  is,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  a gross 
and  ridiculous  exaggeration,  as  is  demonstrable  in  a moment. 
The  effect  of  air  in  altering  the  hue  and  depth  of  color  is  of 
course  great  in  the  exact  proportion  of  the  volume  of  air 
between  the  observer  and  the  object.  It  is  not  violent  within 
the  first  few  yards,  and  then  diminished  gradually,  but  it  is 
equal  for  each  foot  of  interposing  air.  Now  in  a clear  day, 
and  clear  climate,  such  as  that  generally  presupposed  in  a 
work  of  fine  color,  objects  are  completely  visible  at  a distance 
of  ten  miles  ; visible  in  light  and  shade,  with  gradations  be- 
tween the  twQ.  Take,  then,  the  faintest  possible  hue  of  shadow, 
or  of  any  color,  and  the  most  violent  and  positive  possible, 
and  set  them  side  by  side.  The  interval  between  them  is 
greater  than  the  real  difference  (for  objects  may  often  be  seen 
clearly  much  farther  than  ten  miles,  I have  seen  Mont  Blanc 
at  120)  caused  by  the  ten  miles  of  intervening  air  between  any 
given  hue  of  the  nearest,  and  most  distant,  objects  ; but  let  us 
^assume  it,  in  courtesy  to  the  masters  of  aerial  perspective,  to 
be  the  real  difference.  Then  roughly  estimating  a mile  at  less 
than  it  really  is,  also  in  courtesy  to  them,  or  at  5000  feet,  we 
have  this  difference  between  tints  produced  by  50,000  feet  of 
air.  Then,  ten  feet  of  air  will  produce  the  5000th  part  of  this 
difference.  Let  the  reader  take  the  two  extreme  tints,  and 
carefully  gradate  the  one  into  the  other.  Let  him  divide  this 
gradated  shadow  or  color  into  5000  successive  parts  ; and  the 
difference  in  depth  between  one  of  these  parts  and  the  next  is 
the  exact  amount  of  aerial  perspective  between  one  object,  and 
another,  ten  feet  behind  it,  on  a clear  day. 

Vol.  III.— 4 


50 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ xxil  Now,  in  Millais’  “Huguenot,”  the  figures  were 
standing  about  three  feet  from  the  wall  behind  them  ; and  the 
wise  world  of  critics,  which  could  find  no  other  fault  with  the 
picture,  professed  to  have  its  eyes  hurt  by  the  want  of  an 
aerial  perspective,  which,  had  it  been  accurately  given  (as,  in- 
deed, I believe  it  was),  would  have  amounted  to  the  J3°-5000th, 
or  less  than  the  15,000th  part  of  the  depth  of  any  given  color. 
It  would  be  interesting  to  see  a picture  painted  by  the  critics, 
upon  this  scientific  principle.  The  aerial  perspective  usually 
represented  is  entirely  conventional  and  ridiculous  ; a mere 
struggle  on  the  part  of  the  pretendedly  well-informed,  but 
really  ignorant,  artist,  to  express  distances  by  mist  which  he 
cannot  by  drawing. 

It  is  curious  that  the  critical  world  is  just  as  much  offended 
by  the  true  presence  of  aerial  perspective,  over  distances  of 
fifty  miles,  and  with  definite  purpose  of  representing  mist,  in 
the  works  of  Turner,  as  by  the  true  absence  of  aerial  perspec- 
tive, over  distances  of  three  feet,  and  in  clear  weather,  in  those 
of  Millais. 

§ xxiii.  “Well  but,”  still  answers  the  reader,  “ this  kind  of 
error  may  here  and  there  be  occasioned  by  too  much  respect 
for  undigested  knowledge  ; but,  on  the  whole,  the  gain  is 
greater  than  the  loss,  and  the  fact  is,  that  a picture  of  the 
Renaissance  period,  or  by  a modern  master,  does  indeed  rep- 
resent nature  more  faithfully  than  one  wrought  in  the  ig- 
norance of  old  times.”  No,  not  one  whit ; for  the  most  part 
less  faithfully.  Indeed,  the  outside  of  nature  is  more  truly 
drawn ; the  material  commonplace,  which  can  be  systematized, 
catalogued,  and  taught  to  all  pains-taking  mankind, — forms  of 
ribs  and  scapulae,*  of  eyebrows  and  lips,  and  curls  of  hair. 
Whatever  can  be  measured  and  handled,  dissected  and  dem- 

* I intended  in  this  place  to  have  introduced  some  special  considera- 
tion of  the  science  of  anatomy,  which  I believe  to  have  been  in  great 
part  the  cause  of  the  decline  of  modern  art  ; but  I have  been  antici- 
pated by  a writer  better  able  to  treat  the  subject.  I have  only  glanced 
at  his  book  ; and  there  is  something  in  the  spirit  of  it  which  I do  not 
like,  and  some  parts  of  it  are  assuredly  wrong  ; but,  respecting  anatomy, 
it  seems  to  me  to  settle  the  question  indisputably,  more  especially  as 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE . 


51 


onstrated, — in  a word,  whatever  is  of  the  body  only, — that  the 
schools  of  knowledge  do  resolutely  and  courageously  possess 
themselves  of,  and  portray.  But  whatever  is  immeasurable, 
intangible,  indivisible,  and  of  the  spirit,  that  the  schools  of 
knowledge  do  as  certainly  lose,  and  blot  out  of  their  sight, 
that  is  to  say,  all  that  is  worth  art’s  possessing  or  recording 
at  all ; for  whatever  can  be  arrested,  measured,  and  system- 
atized, we  can  contemplate  as  much  as  wTe  will  in  nature  her- 
self. But  what  we  want  art  to  do  for  us  is  to  stay  what  is 
fleeting,  and  to  enlighten  what  is  incomprehensible,  to  incor- 
porate the  things  that  have  no  measure,  and  immortalize  the 
things  that  have  no  duration.  The  dimly  seen,  momentary 
glance,  the  flitting  shadow  of  faint  emotion,  the  imperfect 

being  written  by  a master  of  the  science.  I quote  two  passages,  and 
must  refer  the  reader  to  the  sequel. 

“ The  scientific  men  of  forty  centuries  have  failed  to  describe  so  accu- 
rately, so  beautifully,  so  artistically,  as  Homer  did,  the  organic  elements 
constituting  the  emblems  of  youth  and  beauty,  and  the  waste  and  decay 
which  these  sustain  by  time  and  age.  All  these  Homer  understood 
better,  and  has  described  more  truthfully  than  the  scientific  men  of 
forty  centuries.  . . . 

“ Before  I approach  this  question,  permit  me  to  make  a few  remarks 
on  the  pre-liistoric  period  of  Greece  ; that  era  which  seems  to  have  pro- 
duced nearly  all  the  great  men. 

“On  looking  attentively  at  the  statues  within  my  observation,  I can- 
not find  the  slightest  foundation  for  the  assertion  that  their  sculptors 
must  have  dissected  the  human  frame  and  been  well  acquainted  with 
the  human  anatomy.  They,  like  Homer,  had  discovered  Nature’s  secret, 
and  bestowed  their  whole  attention  on  the  exterior.  The  exterior  they 
read  profoundly,  and  studied  deeply — the  living  exterioi'  and  the  dead. 
Above  all,  they  avoided  displaying  the  dead  and  dissected  interior, 
through  the  exterior.  They  had  discovered  that  the  interior  presents 
hideous  shapes,  but  not  forms.  Men  during  the  philosophic  era  of 
Greece  saw  all  this,  each  reading  the  antique  to  the  best  of  his  abilities. 
The  man  of  genius  rediscovered  the  canon  of  the  ancient  masters,  and 
wrought  on  its  principles.  The  greater  number,  as  now,  unequal  to 
this  step,  merely  imitated  and  copied  those  who  preceded  them.  ’ — 
Great  Artists  and  Great  Anatomists.  By  B.  Knox,  M.D.  London, 
Van  Voorst,  1852. 

Respecting  the  value  of  literary  knowledge  in  general  as  regards  art, 
the  reader  will  also  do  well  to  meditate  on  the  following  sentences  from 
Hallam’s  ‘ 1 Literature  of  Europe  ; ” remembering  at  the  same  time  what 


52 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


lines  of  fading  thought,  and  all  that  by  and  through  such 
things  as  these  is  recorded  on  the  features  of  man,  and  all 
that  in  man’s  person  and  actions,  and  in  the  great  natural 
world,  is  infinite  and  wonderfu]  ; having  in  it  that  spirit  and 
power  which  man  may  witness,  but  not  weigh  ; conceive,  but 
not  comprehend  ; love,  but  not  limit ; and  imagine,  but  not 
define  ; — this,  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  the  aim  of  all 
noble  art,  we  have,  in  the  ancient  art,  by  perception  ; and  we 
ha've  not , in  the  newer  art,  by  knowledge.  Giotto  gives  it  us, 
Orcagna  gives  it  us.  Angelico,  Memmi,  Pisano,  it  matters 
not  who, — all  simple  and  unlearned  men,  in  their  measure  and 
manner,— give  it  us  ; and  the  learned  men  that  followed  them 
give  it  us  not,  and  we,  in  our  supreme  learning,  own  ourselves 
at  this  day  farther  from  it  than  ever. 

§ xxiv.  “Nay,”  but  it  is  still  answered,  “this  is  because  we 
have  not  yet  brought  our  knowledge  into  right  use,  but  have 
been  seeking  to  accumulate  it,  rather  than  to  apply  it  wisely 
to  the  ends  of  art.  Let  us  now  do  this,  and  we  may  achieve 
all  that  was  done  by  that  elder  ignorant  art,  and  infinitely 
more.”  No,  not  so  ; for  as  soon  as  we  try  to  put  our  knowl- 
edge to  good  use,  we  shall  find  that  we  have  much  more  than 
we  can  use,  and  that  what  more  we  have  is  an  encumbrance. 
All  our  errors  in  this  respect  arise  from  a gross  misconcep- 
tion as  to  the  true  nature  of  knowledge  itself.  We  talk  of 
learned  and  ignorant  men,  as  if  there  were  a certain  quantity 
of  knowledge,  which  to  possess  was  to  be  learned,  and  which 

I have  above  said,  that  “ the  root  of  all  great  art  in  Europe  is  struck  in 
the  thirteenth  century,”  and  that  the  great  time  is  from  1250  to  1350 : 
“In  Germany  the  tenth  century,  Leibnitz  declares,  was  a golden  age 
of  learning  compared  with  the  thirteenth.” 

“ The  writers  of  the  thirteenth  century  display  an  incredible  igno- 
rance, not  only  of  pure  idiom,  but  of  common  grammatical  rules.” 

The  fourteenth  century  was  “ not  superior  to  the  thirteenth  in  learn- 
ing- • • • We  may  justly  praise  Richard  of  Bury  for  his  zeal  in 

collecting  books.  But  his  erudition  appears  crude,  his  style  indiffer- 
ent, and  his  thoughts  superficial.” 

I doubt  the  superficialness  of  the  thoughts : at  all  events,  this  is  not  a 
character  of  the  time,  though  it  may  be  of  the  writer  ; for  this  would 
affect  art  more  even  than  literature. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


53 


not  to  possess  was  to  be  ignorant ; instead  of  considering 
that  knowledge  is  infinite,  and  that  the  man  most  learned  in 
human  estimation  is  just  as  far  from  knowing  anything  as  he 
ought  to  know  it,  as  the  unlettered  peasant.  Men  are  merely 
on  a lower  or  higher  stage  of  an  eminence,  wdiose  summit  is 
God’s  throne,  infinitely  above  all ; and  there  is  just  as  much 
reason  for  the  wisest  as  for  the  simplest  man  being  discon- 
tented with  his  position,  as  respects  the  real  quantity  of 
knowledge  he  possesses.  And,  for  both  of  them,  the  only 
true  reasons  for  contentment  with  the  sum  of  knowledge  they 
possess  are  these  : that  it  is  the  kind  of  knowledge  they  need 
for  their  duty  and  happiness  in  life  ; that  all  they  have  is 
tested  and  certain,  so  far  as  it  is  in  their  power ; that  all  they 
have  is  well  in  order,  and  within  reach  when  they  need  it ; 
that  it  has  not  cost  too  much  time  in  the  getting  ; that  none 
of  it,  once  got,  has  been  lost ; and  that  there  is  not  too  much 
to  be  easily  taken  care  of. 

§ xxv.  Consider  these  requirements  a little,  and  the  evils 
that  result  in  our  education  and  polity  from  neglecting  them. 
Knowledge  is  mental  food,  and  is  exactly  to  the  spirit  what 
food  is  to  the  body  (except  that  the  spirit  needs  several  sorts 
of  food,  of  which  knowledge  is  only  one),  and  it  is  liable  to 
the  same  kind  of  misuses.  It  may  be  mixed  and  disguised 
by  art,  till  it  becomes  unwholesome  ; it  may  be  refined,  sweet- 
ened, and  made  palatable,  until  it  has  lost  all  its  power  of 
nourishment ; and,  even  of  its  best  kind,  it  may  be  eaten  to 
surfeiting,  and  minister  to  disease  and  death. 

§ xxvi.  Therefore,  with  respect  to  knowledge,  we  are  to 
reason  and  act  exactly  as  with  respect  to  food.  We  no  more 
live  to  know,  than  wTe  live  to  eat.  We  live  to  contemplate, 
enjoy,  act,  adore  ; and  we  may  know  all  that  is  to  be  known 
in  this  world,  and  what  Satan  kno^vs  in  the  other,  without 
being  able  to  do  any  of  these.  We  are  to  ask,  therefore,  first, 
is  the  knowledge  we  would  have  fit  food  for  us,  good  and 
simple,  not  artificial  and  decorated  ? and  secondly,  how  much 
of  it  will  enable  us  best  for  our  work  ; and  will  leave  our 
hearts  light,  and  our  eyes  clear  ? For  no  more  than  that  is 
to  be  eaten  without  the  old  Eve-sin. 


54 


TIIE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ xxvii.  Observe,  also,  the  difference  between  tasting  knowl- 
edge, and  hoarding  it.  In  this  respect  it  is  also  like  food ; 
since,  in  some  measure,  the  knowledge  of  all  men  is  laid  up  in 
granaries,  for  future  use  ; much  of  it  is  at  any  given  moment 
dormant,  not  fed  upon  or  enjoyed,  but  in  store.  And  by  all 
it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  knowledge  in  this  form  may  be 
kept  without  air  till  it  rots,  or  in  such  unthreshed  disorder  that 
it  is  of  no  use  ; and  that,  however  good  or  orderly,  it  is  still 
only  in  being  tasted  that  it  becomes  of  use  ; and  that  men 
may  easily  starve  in  their  own  granaries,  men  of  science,  per- 
haps, most  of  all,  for  they  are  likely  to  seek  accumulation  of 
their  store,  rather  than  nourishment  from  it.  Yet  let  it  not 
be  thought  that  I would  undervalue  them.  The  good  and 
great  among  them  are  like  Joseph,  to  whom  all  nations  sought 
to  buy  corn  ; or  like  the  sower  going  forth  to  sow  beside  all 
waters,  sending  forth  thither  the  feet  of  the  ox  and  the  ass  : 
only  let  us  remember  that  this  is  not  all  men’s  work.  We  are 
not  intended  to  be  all  keepers  of  granaries,  nor  all  to  be  meas- 
ured by  the  filling  of  a storehouse  ; but  many,  nay,  most  of 
us,  are  to  receive  day  by  day  our  daily  bread,  and  shall  be 
as  well  nourished  and  as  fit  for  our  labor,  and  often,  also,  fit 
for  nobler  and  more  divine  labor,  in  feeding  from  the  barrel 
of  meal  that  does  not  waste,  and  from  the  cruse  of  oil  that 
does  not  fail,  than  if  our  barns  were  filled  with  plenty,  and  our 
presses  bursting  out  with  new  wine. 

§ xxviii.  It  is  for  each  man  to  find  his  own  measure  in  this 
matter  ; in  great  part,  also,  for  others  to  find  it  for  him,  while 
he  is  yet  a youth.  And  the  desperate  evil  of  the  -whole  Re- 
naissance system  is,  that  all  idea  of  measure  is  therein  forgot- 
ten, that  knowledge  is  thought  the  one  and  the  only  good, 
and  it  is  never  inquired  whether  men  are  vivified  by  it  or 
paralyzed.  Let  us  leave  figures.  The  reader  may  not  believe 
the  analogy  I have  been  pressing  so  far  ; but  let  him  consider 
the  subject  in  itself,  let  him  examine  the  effect  of  knowledge 
in  his  own  heart,  and  see  whether  the  trees  of  knowledge  and 
of  life  are  one  now,  any  more  than  in  Paradise.  He  must  fee] 
that  the  real  animating  power  of  knowledge  is  only  in  the 
moment  of  its  'being  first  received,  when  it  fills  us  with  worn 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


55 


der  and  joy  ; a joy  for  which,  observe,  the  previous  ignorance 
is  just  as  necessary  as  the  present  knowledge.  That  man  is 
always  happy  who  is  in  the  presence  of  something  which  he 
cannot  know  to  the  full,  which  he  is  always  going  on  to  know. 
This  is  the  necessary  condition  of  a finite  creature  with  di- 
vinely rooted  and  divinely  directed  intelligence  ; this,  there- 
fore, its  happy  state, — but  observe,  a state,  not  of  triumph 
or  joy  in  what  it  knows,  but  of  joy  rather  in  the  continual 
discovery  of  new  ignorance,  continual  self-abasement,  contin- 
ual astonishment.  Once  thoroughly  our  own,  the  knowledge 
ceases  to  give  us  pleasure.  It  may  be  practically  useful  to  us, 
it  may  be  good  for  others,  or  good  for  usury  to  obtain  more  ; 
but,  in  itself,  once  let  it  be  thoroughly  familiar,  and  it  is  dead. 
The  wonder  is  gone  from  it,  and  all  the  fine  color  which  it  had 
when  first  we  drew  it  up  out  of  the  infinite  sea.  And  what 
does  it  matter  how  much  or  how  little  of  it  we  have  laid  aside, 
when  our  only  enjoyment  is  still  in  the  casting  of  that  deep 
sea  line?  What  does  it  matter?  Nay,  in  one  respect,  it 
matters  much,  and  not  to  our  advantage.  For  one  effect  of 
knowledge  is  to  deaden  the  force  of  the  imagination  and  the 
original  energy  of  the  whole  man  : under  the  weight  of  his 
knowledge  he  cannot  move  so  lightly  as  in  the  days  of  his 
simplicity.  The  pack-horse  is  furnished  for  the  journey,  the 
war-horse  is  armed  for  war ; but  the  freedom  of  the  field  and 
the  lightness  of  the  limb  are  lost  for  both.  Knowledge  is,  at 
best,  the  pilgrim’s  burden  or  the  soldier’s  panoply,  often  a 
weariness  to  them  both : and  the  Renaissance  knowledge  is 
like  the  Renaissance  armor  of  plate,  binding  and  cramping  the 
Jiuman  form  ; while  all  good  knowledge  is  like  the  crusader’s 
chain  mail,  which  throws  itself  into  folds  wfith  the  body,  yet 
it  is  rarely  so  forged  as  that  the  clasps  and  rivets  do  not  gall 
us.  All  men  feel  this,  though  they  do  not  think  of  it,  nor 
reason  out  its  consequences.  They  look  back  to  the  days  of 
childhood  as  of  greatest  happiness,  because  those  were  the 
days  of  greatest  wonder,  greatest  simplicity,  and  most  vigor- 
ous imagination.  And  the  whole  difference  between  a man  of 
genius  and  other  men,  it  has  been  said  a thousand  times,  and 
most  truly,  is  that  the  first  remains  in  great  part  a child,  see- 


56 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ing  with  the  large  eyes  of  children,  in  perpetual  wonder,  not 
conscious  of  much  knowledge, — conscious,  rather,  of  infinite 
ignorance,  and  yet  infinite  power  ; a fountain  of  eternal  admi- 
ration, delight,  and  creative  force  within  him  meeting  the 
ocean  of  visible  and  governable  things  around  him. 

That  is  what  we  have  to  make  men,  so  far  as  we  may.  All 
are  to  be  men  of  genius  in  their  degree, — rivulets  or  rivers,  it 
does  not  matter,  so  that  the  souls  be  clear  and  pure  ; not  dead 
walls  encompassing  dead  heaps  of  things  known  and  num- 
bered, but  running  waters  in  the  sweet  wilderness  of  things 
unnumbered  and  unknown,  conscious  only  of  the  living  banks, 
on  which  they  partly  refresh  and  partly  reflect  the  flowers, 
and  so  pass  on. 

§ xxix.  Let  each  man  answer  for  himself  how  far  his  knowl- 
edge has  made  him  this,  or  how  far  it  is  loaded  upon  him  as 
the  pyramid  is  upon  the  tomb.  Let  him  consider,  also,  how 
much  of  it  has  cost  him  labor  and  time  that  might  have  been 
spent  in  healthy,  happy  action,  beneficial  to  all  mankind  ; 
how  many  living  souls  may  have  been  left  uncomforted  and 
unhelped  by  him,  while  his  own  eyes  were  failing  by  the  mid- 
night lamp  ; how  many  warm  sympathies  have  died  within 
him  as  he  measured  lines  or  counted  letters  ; how  many 
draughts  of  .ocean  air,  and  steps  on  mountain-turf,  and  open- 
ings of  the  highest  heaven  he  has  lost  for  his  knowledge  ; how 
much  of  that  knowledge,  so  dearly  bought,  is  now  forgotten 
or  despised,  leaving  only  the  capacity  of  wonder  less  within 
him,  and,  as  it  happens  in  a thousand  instances,  perhaps  even 
also  the  capacity  of  devotion.  And  let  him, — if,  after  thus 
dealing  with  his  own  heart,  he  can  say  that  his  knowledge 
has  indeed  been  fruitful  to  him, — yet  consider  how  many 
there  are  who  have  been  forced  by  the  inevitable  laws  of  mod- 
ern education  into  toil  utterly  repugnant  to  their  natures,  and 
that  in  the  extreme,  until  the  wdiole  strength  of  the  young 
soul  was  sapped  away  ; and  then  pronounce  with  fearfulness 
how  far,  and  in  how  many  senses,  it  may  indeed  be  true  that 
the  wisdom  of  this  world  is  foolishness  with  God. 

§ xxx.  Now  all  this  possibility  of  evil,  observe,  attaches  to 
knowledge  pursued  for  the  noblest  ends,  if  it  be  pursued  im- 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


57 


prudently.  I have  assumed,  in  speaking  of  its  effect  both  on 
men  generally  and  on  the  artist  especially,  that  it  was  sought 
in  the  true  love  of  it,  and  with  all  honesty  and  directness  of 
purpose.  But  this  is  granting  far  too  much  in  its  favor.  Of 
knowledge  in  general,  and  without  qualification,  it  is  said  by 
the  Apostle  that  “ it  puffeth  up  ; ” and  the  father  of  all  mod- 
ern science,  writing  directly  in  its  praise,  yet  asserts  this  dan- 
ger even  in  more  absolute  terms,  calling  it  a “ venomousness  ” 
in  the  very  nature  of  knowledge  itself. 

§ xxxi.  There  is,  indeed,  much  difference  in  this  respect 
between  the  tendencies  of  different  branches  of  knowledge  ; it 
being  a sure  rule  that  exactly  in  proportion  as  they  are  infe- 
rior, nugatory,  or  limited  in  scope,  their  power  of  feeding 
pride  is  greater.  Thus  philology,  logic,  rhetoric,  and  the 
other  sciences  of  the  schools,  being  for  the  most  part  ridicu- 
lous and  trifling,  have  so  pestilent  an  effect  upon  those  who  are 
devoted  to  them,  that  their  students  cannot  conceive  of  any 
higher  sciences  than  these,  but  fancy  that  all  education  ends 
in  the  knowledge  of  words  : but  the  true  and  great  sciences, 
more  especially  natural  history,  make  men  gentle  and  modest 
in  proportion  to  the  largeness  of  their  apprehension,  and  just 
perception  of  the  infiniteness  of  the  things  they  can  never 
know,  xlnd  this,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  principal  lesson  we 
are  intended  to  be  taught  by  the  book  of  Job  ; for  there  God 
has  thrown  open  to  us  the  heart  of  a man  most  just  and  holy, 
and  apparently  perfect  in  all  things  possible  to  human  nature 
except  humility.  For  this  he  is  tried  : and  we  are  shown 
that  no  suffering,  no  self-examination,  however  honest,  how- 
ever stern,  no  searching  out  of  the  heart  by  its  own  bitterness, 
is  enough  to  convince  man  of  his  nothingness  before  God ; 
but  that  the  sight  of  God’s  creation  will  do  it.  For,  when  the 
Deity  himself  has  willed  to  end  the  temptation,  and  to  ac 
complish  in  Job  that  for  which  it  was  sent,  He  does  no 
vouchsafe  to  reason  with  him,  still  less  does  He  overwhelm 
him  with  terror,  or  confound  him  by  laying  open  before  hi 
eyes  the  book  of  his  iniquities.  He  opens  before  him  onlj 
the  arch  of  the  dayspring,  and  the  fountains  of  the  deep  ; and 
amidst  the  covert  of  the  reeds,  and  on  the  heaving  waves  He 


58 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


bids  liim  watch  the  kings  of  the  children  of  pride, — “ Behold 
now  Behemoth,  which  I made  with  thee And  the  work  is  done, 

§ xxxii.  Thus,  if,  I repeat,  there  is  any  one  lesson  in  the 
whole  book  which  stands  forth  more  definitely  than  another, 
it  is  this  of  the  holy  and  humbling  influence  of  natural  science 
on  the  human  heart.  And  yet,  even  here,  it  is  not  the  science, 
but  the  perception,  to  which  the  good  is  owing  ; and  the  nat- 
ural sciences  may  become  as  harmful  as  any  others,  when  they 
lose  themselves  in  classification  and  catalogue-making.  Still, 
the  principal  danger  is  with  the  sciences  of  words  and  meth- 
ods ; and  it  was  exactly  into  those  sciences  that  the  whole 
energy  of  men  during  the  Renaissance  period  was  thrown. 
They  discovered  sudden!}7  that  the  world  for  ten  centuries  had 
been  living  in  an  ungrammatical  manner,  and  they  made  it 
forthwith  the  end  of  human  existence  to  be  grammatical.  And 
it  mattered  thenceforth  nothing  what  was  said,  or  what  was 
done,  so  only  that  it  was  said  with  scholarship,  and  done  with 
system.  Falsehood  in  a Ciceronian  dialect  had  no  opposers  ; 
truth  in  patois  no  listeners.  A Homan  phrase  was  thought 
worth  any  number  of  Gothic  facts.  The  sciences  ceased  at 
once  to  be  anything  more  than  different  kinds  of  grammars, — 
grammar  of  language,  grammar  of  logic,  grammar  of  ethics, 
grammar  of  art  ; and  the  tongue,  wit,  and  invention  of  the 
human  race  were  supposed  to  have  found  their  utmost  and 
most  divine  mission  in  syntax  and  syllogism,  perspective  and 
five  orders. 

Of  such  knowledge  as  this,  nothing  but  pride  could  come  ; 
and,  therefore,  I have  called  the  first  mental  characteristic  of 
the  Renaissance  schools,  the  “ pride  ” of  science.  If  they  had 
reached  any  science  worth  the  name,  they  might  have  loved 
' ; but  of  the  paltry  knowledge  they  possessed,  they  could 
only  be  proud.  There  was  not  anything  in  it  capable  of  be- 
ing loved.  Anatomy,  indeed,  then  first  made  a subject  of 
accurate  study,  is  a true  science,  but  not  so  attractive  as  to 
enlist  the  affections  strongly  on  its  side  : and  therefore,  like 
its  meaner  sisters,  it  became  merely  a ground  for  pride  ; and 
the  one  main  purpose  of  the  Renaissance  artists,  in  all  theif 
work,  was  to  show  how  much  they  knew. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE . 


59 


§ xxxiii.  There  were,  of  course,  noble  exceptions ; but 
chiefly  belonging  to  the  earliest  periods  of  the  Renaissance, 
when  its  teaching  had  not  yet  produced  its  full  effect.  Ra- 
phael, Leonardo,  and  Michael  Angelo  were  all  trained  in  the 
old  school ; they  all  had  masters  who  knew  the  true  ends  of 
art,  and  had  reached  them  ; masters  nearly  as  great  as  they 
were  themselves,  but  imbued  with  the  old  religious  and  ear- 
nest spirit,  which  their  disciples  receiving  from  them,  and 
drinking  at  the  same  time  deeply  from  all  the  fountains  of 
knowledge  opened  in  their  day,  became  the  world’s  wonders. 
Then  the  dull  wondering  world  believed  that  their  greatness 
rose  out  of  their  new  knowledge,  instead  of  out  of  that  ancient 
religious  root,  in  which  to  abide  was  life,  from  which  to  be  sev- 
ered was  annihilation.  And  from  that  day  to  this,  they  have 
tried  to  produce  Michael  Angelos  and  Leonardos  by  teaching 
the  barren  sciences,  and  still  have  mourned  and  marvelled 
that  no  more  Michael  Angelos  came  ; not  perceiving  that  those 
great  Fathers  were  only  able  to  receive  such  nourishment  be- 
cause they  were  rooted  on  the  rock  of  all  ages,  and  that  our 
scientific  teaching,  nowadays,  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
the  assiduous  watering  of  trees  whose  stems  are  cut  through. 
Nay,  I have  even  granted  too  much  in  saying  that  those  great 
men  were  able  to  receive  pure  nourishment  from  the  sciences  ; 
for  my  own  conviction  is,  and  I know  it  to  be  shared  by  most 
of  those  who  love  Raphael  truly, — that  he  painted  best  when 
he  knew  least.  Michael  Angelo  was  betrayed,  again  and 
again,  into  such  vain  and  offensive  exhibition  of  his  anatomical 
knowledge  as,  to  this  day,  renders  his  higher  powers  indis- 
cernible by  the  greater  part  of  men  ; and  Leonardo  fretted 
his  life  away  in  engineering,  so  that  there  is  hardly  a picture 
left  to  bear  his  name.  But,  with  respect  to  all  who  followed, 
there  can  be  no  question  that  the  science  they  possessed  was 
utterly  harmful ; serving  merely  to  draw  away  their  hearts  at 
once  from  the  purposes  of  art  and  the  power  of  nature,  and 
to  make,  out  of  the  canvas  and  marble,  nothing  more  than 
materials  for  the  exhibition  of  petty  dexterity  and  useless 
knowledge. 

§ xxxiv.  It  is  sometimes  amusing  to  watch  the  naive  and 


60 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


childish  way  in  which  this  vanity  is  shown.  For  instance, 
when  perspective  was  first  invented,  the  world  thought  it  a 
mighty  discovery,  and  the  greatest  men  it  had  in  it  were  as 
proud  of  knowing  that  retiring  lines  converge,  as  if  all  the 
wisdom  of  Solomon  had  been  compressed  into  a vanishing 
point.  And,  accordingly,  it  became  nearly  impossible  for  any 
one  to  paint  a Nativity,  but  he  must  turn  the  stable  and  man- 
ger into  a Corinthian  arcade,  in  order  to  show  his  knowledge 
of  perspective  ; and  half  the  best  architecture  of  the  time, 
instead  of  being  adorned  with  historical  sculpture,  as  of  old, 
was  set  forth  with  bas-relief  of  minor  corridors  and  galleries, 
thrown  into  perspective. 

Now  that  perspective  can  be  taught  to  any  schoolboy  in  a 
week,  we  ca 23.  smile  at  this  vanity.  But  the  fact  is,  that  all 
pride  in  knowledge  is  precisely  as  ridiculous,  whatever  its 
kind,  or  whatever  its  degree.  There  is,  indeed,  nothing  of 
which  man  has  any  right  to  be  proud  ; but  the  very  last  thing 
of  which,  with  any  show  of  reason,  he  can  make  his  boast  is 
his  knowledge,  except  only  that  infinitely  small  portion  of  it 
which  he  has  discovered  for  himself.  For  what  is  there  to  be 
more  proud  of  in  receiving  a piece  of  knowledge  from  another 
person,  than  in  receiving  a piece  of  money  ? Beggars  should 
not  be  proud,  whatever  kind  of  alms  they  receive.  Knowl- 
edge is  like  current  coin.  A man  may  have  some  right  to  be 
proud  of  possessing  it,  if  he  has  worked  for  the  gold  of  it, 
and  assayed  it,  and  stamped  it,  so  that  it  may  be  received  of 
all  men  as  true  ; or  earned  it  fairly,  being  already  assayed  : 
but  if  he  has  done  none  of  these  things,  but  only  had  it  thrown 
in  his  face  by  a passer-by,  what  cause  has  he  to  be  proud  ? 
And  though,  in  this  mendicant  fashion,  he  had  heaped 
together  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  would  pride  any  more,  for 
this,  become  him,  as,  in  some  sort,  it  becomes  the  man  who 
has  labored  for  his  fortune,  however  small  ? So,  if  a man  tells 
me  the  sun  is  larger  than  the  earth,  have  I any  cause  for  pride 
in  knowing  it  ? or,  if  any  multitude  of  men  tell  me  any  num- 
ber of  things,  heaping  all  their  wealth  of  knowledge  upon  me, 
have  I any  reason  to  be  proud  under  the  heap  ? And  is  not 
nearly  all  the  knowledge  of  which  we  boast  in  these  days 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


61 


cast  upon  us  in  this  dishonorable  way  ; worked  for  by  other 
men,  proved  by  them,  and  then  forced  upon  us,  even  against 
our  wills,  and  beaten  into  us  in  our  youth,  before  we  have  the 
wit  even  to  know  if  it  be  good  or  not  ? (Mark  the  distinction 
between  knowledge  and  thought.)  Truly  a noble  possession 
to  be  proud  of  ! Be  assured,  there  is  no  part  of  the  furniture 
of  a man’s  mind  which  he  has  a right  to  exult  in,  but  that 
which  he  has  hewn  and  fashioned  for  himself.  He  who  has 
built  himself  a hut  on  a desert  heath,  and  carved  his  bed,  and 
table,  and  chair  out  of  the  nearest  forest,  may  have  some  right 
to  take  pride  in  the  appliances  of  his  narrow  chamber,  as 
assuredly  he  will  have  joy  in  them.  But  the  man  who  has 
had  a palace  built,  and  adorned,  and  furnished  for  him,  may, 
indeed,  have  many  advantages  above  the  other,  but  he  has  no 
reason  to  be  proud  of  his  upholsterer’s  skill ; and  it  is  ten  to 
one  if  he  has  half  the  joy  in  his  couches  of  ivory  that  the  other 
will  have  in  his  pallet  of  pine. 

§ xxxv.  And  observe  how  wTe  feel  this,  in  the  kind  of  re- 
spect we  pay  to  such  knowledge  as  we  are  indeed  capable  of 
estimating  the  value  of.  When  it  is  our  own,  and  new  to  us, 
we  cannot  judge  of  it  ; but  let  it  be  another’s  also,  and  long 
familiar  to  us,  and  see  what  value  we  set  on  it.  Consider  how 
we  regard  a schoolboy,  fresh  from  his  term’s  labor.  If  he 
begin  to  display  his  newly  acquired  small  knowledge  to  us, 
and  plume  himself  thereupon,  how  soon  do  we  silence  him 
with  contempt ! But  it  is  not  so  if  the  schoolboy  begins  to 
feel  or  see  anything.  In  the  strivings  of  his  soul  within  him 
lie  is  our  equal  ; in  his  power  of  sight  and  thought  he  stands 
separate  from  us,  and  may  be  a greater  than  we.  We  are  ready 
to  hear  him  forthwith.  “ You  saw  that  ? you  felt  that  ? No 
matter  for  your  being  a child  ; let  us  hear.” 

§ xxxvi.  Consider  that  every  generation  of  men  stands  in 
this  relation  to  its  successors.  It  is  as  the  schoolboy:  the 
knowledge  of  which  it  is  proudest  will  be  as  the  alphabet  to 
those  who  follow.  It  had  better  make  no  noise  about  its 
knowledge  ; a time  will  come  when  its  utmost,  in  that  kind, 
will  be  food  for  scorn.  Poor  fools  ! was  that  all  they  knew  ? 
and  behold  how  proud  they  were  ! But  what  we  see  and  feel 


62 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


will  never  be  mocked  at.  All  men  will  be  thankful  to  us  for 
telling  them  that.  “Indeed  ! ” they  will  say,  “ they  felt  that 
in  their  day  ? saw  that  ? Would  God  we  may  be  like  them, 
before  we  go  to  the  home  where  sight  and  thought  are  not ! ” 
This  unhappy  and  childish  pride  in  knowledge,  then,  was 
the  first  constituent  element  of  the  Renaissance  mind,  and  it 
was  enough,  of  itself,  to  have  cast  it  into  swift  decline  : but  it 
was  aided  by  another  form  of  pride,  which  was  above  called 
the  Pride  of  State  ; and  which  we  have  next  to  examine. 

§ xxxvii.  II.  Pride  of  State.  It  was  noticed  in  the  second 
volume  of  “ Modern  Painters,”  p.  314,  that  the  principle 
which  had  most  power  in  retarding  the  modern  school  of 
portraiture  was  its  constant  expression  of  individual  vanity  and 
pride.  And  the  reader  cannot  fail  to  have  observed  that  one 
of  the  readiest  and  commonest  ways  in  which  the  painter  min- 
isters to  this  vanity,  is  by  introducing  the  pedestal  or  shaft  of 
a column,  or  some  fragment,  however  simple,  of  Renaissance 
architecture,  in  the  background  of  the  portrait.  And  this  is 
not  merely  because  such  architecture  is  bolder  or  grander 
than,  in  general,  that  of  the  apartments  of  a private  house. 
No  other  architecture  would  produce  the  same  effect  in  the 
same  degree.  The  richest  Gothic,  the  most  massive  Norman, 
would  not  produce  the  same  sense  of  exaltation  as  the  simple 
and  meagre  lines  of  the  Renaissance. 

§ xxxviii.  And  if  we  think  over  this  matter  a little,  we 
shall  soon  feel  that  in  those  meagre  lines  there  is  indeed  an 
expression  of  aristocracy  in  its  worst  characters  ; coldness, 
perfectness  of  training,  incapability  of  emotion,  want  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  weakness  of  lower  men,  blank,  hopeless,  haughty 
self-sufficiency.  All  these  characters  are  written  in  the  Re- 
naissance architecture  as  plainly  as  if  they  were  graven  on  it 
in  words.  For,  observe,  all  other  architectures  have  something 
in  them  that  common  men  can  enjoy ; some  concession  to  the 
simplicities  of  humanity,  some  daily  bread  for  the  hunger  of 
the  multitude.  Quaint  fancy,  rich  ornament,  bright  color, 
something  that  shows  a S}unpathy  with  men  of  ordinary  minds 
and  hearts  ; and  this  wrought  out,  at  least  in  the  Gothic,  with 
a rudeness  showing  that  the  workman  did  not  mind  exposing 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


63 


his  own  ignorance  if  he  could  please  others.  But  the  Renais- 
sance is  exactly  the  contrary  of  all  this.  It  is  rigid,  cold,  in- 
human ; incapable  of  glowing,  of  stooping,  of  conceding  for 
an  instant.  Whatever  excellence  it  has  is  refined,  high- 
trained,  and  deeply  erudite  ; a kind  which  the  architect  well 
knows  no  common  mind  can  taste.  He  proclaims  it  to  us 
aloud.  “ You  cannot  feel  my  work  unless  you  study  Vitru- 
vius. I will  give  you  no  gay  color,  no  pleasant  sculpture, 
nothing  to  make  you  happy  ; for  I am  a learned  man.  All 
the  pleasure  you  can  have  in  anything  I do  is  in  its  proud 
breeding,  its  rigid  formalism,  its  perfect  finish,  its  cold  tran- 
quillity. I do  not  work  for  the  vulgar,  only  for  the  men  of 
the  academy  and  the  court.” 

§ xxxix.  And  the  instinct  of  the  world  felt  this  in  a moment. 
In  the  new  precision  and  accurate  law  of  the  classical  forms, 
they  perceived  something  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  setting 
forth  of  state  in  an  appalling  manner  : Princes  delighted  in  it, 
and  courtiers.  The  Gothic  was  good  for  God’s  worship,  but 
this  was  good  for  man’s  worship.  The  Gothic  had  fellowship 
with  all  hearts,  and  was  universal,  like  nature  : it  could  frame 
a temple  for  the  prayer  of  nations,  or  shrink  into  the  poor 
man’s  winding  stair.  Bat  here  was  an  architecture  that  would 
not  shrink,  that  had  in  it  no  submission,  no  mercy.  The 
proud  princes  and  lords  rejoiced  in  it.  It  was  full  of  insult  to 
the  poor  in  its  every  line.  It  would  not  be  built  of  the  ma- 
terials at  the  poor  man’s  hand ; it  would  not  roof  itself  wdth 
thatch  or  shingle,  and  black  oak  beams  ; it  would  not  wall  itself 
with  rough  stone  or  brick  ; it  would  not  pierce  itself  with 
small  windows  where  they  were  needed  ; it  would  not  niche 
itself,  wherever  there  was  room  for  it,  in  the  street  corners. 
It  would  be  of  hewn  stone  ; it  would  have  its  windows  and 
its  doors,  and  its  stairs  and  its  pillars,  in  lordly  order,  and  of 
stately  size  ; it  would  have  its  wings  and  its  corridors,  and  its 
halls  and  its  gardens,  as  if  all  the  earth  were  its  own.  And 
the  rugged  cottages  of  the  mountaineers,  and  the  fantastic 
streets  of  the  laboring  burgher  were  to  be  thrust  out  of  its 
way,  as  of  a lower  species. 

§ xl.  It  is  to  be  noted  also,  that  it  ministered  as  much  to 


64 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


luxury  as  to  pride.  Not  to  luxury  of  the  eye,  that  is  a holy 
luxury  ; Nature  ministers  to  that  in  her  painted  meadows, 
and  sculptured  forests,  and  gilded  heavens  ; the  Gothic  builder 
ministered  to  that  in  his  twisted  traceries,  and  deep-wrought 
foliage,  and  burning  casements.  The  dead  Renaissance  drew 
back  into  its  earthliness,  out  of  all  that  was  warm  and  heavenly  ; 
back  into  its  pride,  out  of  all  that  was  simple  and  kind ; back 
into  its  stateliness,  out  of  all  that  was  impulsive,  reverent,  and 
gay.  But  it  understood  the  luxury  of  the  body  ; the  terraced 
and  scented  and  grottoed  garden,  with  its  trickling  fountains 
and  slumbrous  shades  ; the  spacious  hall  and  lengthened  cor- 
ridor for  the  summer  heat  ; the  well-closed  windows,  and  per- 
fect fittings  and  furniture,  for  defence  against  the  cold ; and 
the  soft  picture,  and  frescoed  wall  and  roof,  covered  with  the 
last  lasciviousness  of  Paganism ; — this  is  understood  and  pos- 
sessed to  the  full,  and  still  possesses.  This  is  the  kind  of  do- 
mestic architecture  on  which  we  pride  ourselves,  even  to  this 
day,  as  an  infinite  and  honorable  advance  from  the  rough 
habits  of  our  ancestors  ; from  the  time  when  the  king’s  floor 
was  strewn  with  rushes,  and  the  tapestries  swayed  before  the 
searching  wind  in  the  baron’s  hall. 

§ xli.  Let  us  hear  two  stories  of  those  rougher  times. 

At  the  debate  of  King  Edwin  with  his  courtiers  and  priests, 
whether  he  ought  to  receive  the  Gospel  preached  to  him  by 
Paulinus,  one  of  his  nobles  spoke  as  follows  : 

“ The  present  life,  O king ! weighed  with  the  time  that  is 
unknown,  seems  to  me  like  this.  When  you  are  sitting  at  a 
feast  with  your  earls  and  thanes  in  winter  time,  and  the  fire  is 
lighted,  and  the  hall  is  warmed,  and  it  rains  and  snows,  and 
the  storm  is  loud  without,  there  comes  a sparrow,  and  flies 
through  the  house.  It  comes  in  at  one  door  and  goes  out  at 
the  other.  While  it  is  within,  it  is  not  touched  by  the  win- 
ter’s storm  ; but  it  is  but  for  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  for  from 
winter  it  comes  and  to  winter  it  returns.  So  also  this  life  of 
man  endureth  for  a little  space;  what  goes  before  or  what 
follows  after,  we  know  not.  Wherefore,  if  this  new  lore  bring 
anything  more  certain,  it  is  fit  that  we  should  follow^  it.”  * 

* Churton’s  “ Early  English  Church.  ” London,  1840. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


65 


That  could  not  have  happened  in  a Renaissance  building. 
The  bird  could  not  have  dashed  in  from  the  cold  into  the  heat, 
and  from  the  heat  back  again  into  the  storm.  It  would  have  had 
to  come  up  a flight  of  marble  stairs,  and  through  seven  or  eight 
antechambers  ; and  so,  if  it  had  ever  made  its  way  into  the 
presence  chamber,  out  again  through  loggias  and  corridors 
innumerable.  And  the  truth  which  the  bird  brought  with  it, 
fresh  from  heaven,  has,  in  like  manner,  to  make  its  wray  to  the 
Renaissance  mind  through  many  antechambers,  hardly,  and 
as  a despised  thing,  if  at  all. 

§ xlii.  Hear  another  story  of  those  early  times. 

The  king  of  Jerusalem,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  at  the  siege  of 
Asshur,  or  Arsur,  gave  audience  to  some  emirs  from  Samaria, 
and  Naplous.  They  found  him  seated  on  the  ground  on  a 
sack  of  straw.  They  expressing  surprise,  Godfrey  answered 
them  : “ May  not  the  earth,  out  of  which  we  came,  and 
which  is  to  be  our  dwelling  after  death,  serve  us  for  a seat 
during  life  ? ” 

It  is  long  since  such  a throne  has  been  set  in  the  reception- 
chambers  of  Christendom,  or  such  an  answer  heard  from  the 
lips  of  a king. 

Thus  the  Renaissance  spirit  became  base  both  in  its  absti- 
nence and  its  indulgence.  Base  in  its  abstinence  ; curtailing 
the  bright  and  playful  wTealtli  of  form  and  thought,  which 
filled  the  architecture  of  the  earlier  ages  with  sources  of  de- 
light for  their  hardy  spirit,  pure,  simple,  and  yet  rich  as  the 
fretwork  of  flowers  and  moss,  watered  by  some  strong  and 
stainless  mountain  stream  : and  base  in  its  indulgence  ; as  it 
granted  to  the  body  what  it  withdrew  from  the  heart,  and 
exhausted,  in  smoothing  the  pavement  for  the  painless  feet, 
and  softening  the  pillow  for  the  sluggish  brain,  the  powers  of 
art  which  once  had  hewn  rough  ladders  into  the  clouds  of 
heaven,  and  set  up  the  stones  by  which  they  rested  for  houses 
of  God. 

§ xliii.  And  just  in  proportion  as  this  courtly  sensuality 
lowered  the  real  nobleness  of  the  men  whom  birth  or  fortune 
raised  above  their  fellows,  rose  their  estimate  of  their  own 
dignity,  together  with  the  insolence  and  unkindness  of  its 
Vol.  III.— 5 


66 


TI1E  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


expression,  and  the  grossness  of  the  flattery  with  which  it 
was  fed.  Pride  is  indeed  the  first  and  the  last  among  the  sins 
of  men,  and  there  is  no  age  of  the  world  in  which  it  has  not 
been  unveiled  in  the  power  and  prosperity  of  the  wicked. 
But  there  was  never  in  any  form  of  slavery,  or  of  feudal  su- 
premacy, a forgetfulness  so  total  of  the  common  majesty  of 
the  human  soul,  and  of  the  brotherly  kindness  due  from  man 
to  man,  as  in  the  aristocratic  follies  in  the  Renaissance.  I 
have  not  space  to  follow  out  this  most  interesting  and  exten- 
sive subject ; but  here  is  a single  and  very  curious  example 
of  the  kind  of  flattery  with  which  architectural  teaching  was 
mingled  when  addressed  to  the  men  of  rank  of  the  day. 

§ xliv.  In  St.  Mark’s  library  there  is  a very  curious  Latin 
manuscript  of  the  twenty-five  books  of  Averulinus,  a Floren- 
tine architect,  upon  the  principles  of  his  art.  The  book  was 
written  in  or  about  1460,  and  translated  into  Latin,  and  richly 
illuminated  for  Corvinus,  king  of  Hungary,  about  1488.  I 
extract  from  the  third  book  the  following  passage  on  the 
nature  of  stones.  “ As  there  are  three  genera  of  men, — that 
is  to  say,  nobles,  men  of  the  middle  classes,  and  rustics, — so 
it  appears  that  there  are  of  stones.  For  the  marbles  and  com- 
mon stones  of  which  we  have  spoken  above,  set  forth  the  rus- 
tics. The  porphyries  and  alabasters,  and  the  other  harder 
stones  of  mingled  quality,  represent  the  middle  classes,  if  wTe 
are  to  deal  in  comparisons  : and  by  means  of  these  the  an- 
cients adorned  their  temples  with  incrustations  and  ornaments 
in  a magnificent  manner.  And  after  these  come  the  chalce- 
donies and  sard  onyxes,  &c.,  which  are  so  transparent  that 
there  can  be  seen  no  spot  in  them.*  Thus  men  endowed 
with  nobility  lead  a life  in  which  no  spot  can  be  found.” 

Canute  or  Coeur  de  Lion  (I  name  not  Godfrey  or  St.  Louis) 
would  have  dashed  their  sceptres  against  the  lips  of  a man 
who  should  have  dared  to  utter  to  them  flattery  such  as  this. 

* u Quibus  nulla  macula  inest  quse  non  cernatur.  Ita  viri  nobilitate 
prsediti  earn  vitam  peragant  cul  nulla  notapossit  inviri.”  The  first  sen- 
tence is  literally,  “ in  which  there  is  no  spot  that  may  not  be  seen.” 
But  I imagine  the  writer  meant  it  as  I have  put  it  in  the  text,  else  his 
comparison  does  not  hold. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


67 


But  in  the  fifteenth  century  it  was  rendered  and  accepted  as 
a matter  of  course,  and  the  tempers  which  delighted  in  it 
necessarily  took  pleasure  also  in  every  vulgar  or  false  means, 
of  taking  worldly  superiority.  And  among  such  false  means 
largeness  of  scale  in  the  dwelling-house  was  of  course  one  of 
the  easiest  and  most  direct.  All  persons,  however  senseless 
or  dull,  could  appreciate  size  : it  required  some  exertion  of 
intelligence  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  quaint  carving  of 
the  Gothic  times,  but  none  to  perceive  that  one  heap  of  stones 
was  higher  than  another.*  And  therefore,  while  in  the  exe- 
cution and  manner  of  work  the  Renaissance  builders  zealously 
vindicated  for  themselves  the  attribute  of  cold  and  superior 
learning,  they  appealed  for  such  approbation  as  they  needed 
from  the  multitude,  to  the  lowest  possible  standard  of  taste  ; 
and  while  the  older  workman  lavished  his  labor  on  the  minute 
niche  and  narrow  casement,  on  the  doorways  no  higher  than 
the  head,  and  the  contracted  angles  of  the  turreted  chamber, 
the  Renaissance  builder  spared  such  cost  and  toil  in  his  detail, 
that  he  might  spend  it  in  bringing  larger  stones  from  a 
distance  ; and  restricted  himself  to  rustication  and  five  orders, 
that  he  might  load  the  ground  with  colossal  piers,  and  raise 
an  ambitious  barrenness  of  architecture,  as  inanimate  as  it 
was  gigantic,  above  the  feasts  and  follies  of  the  powerful  or  the 
rich.  The  Titanic  insanity  extended  itself  also  into  ecclesias- 
tical design  : the  principal  church  in  Italy  was  built  with  little 
idea  of  any  other  admirableness  than  that  which  was  to  result 
from  its  being  huge  ; and  the  religious  impressions  of  those 
who  enter  it  are  to  this  day  supposed  to  be  dependent,  in  a 
great  degree,  on  their  discovering  that  they  cannot  span  the 
thumbs  of  the  statues  which  sustain  the  vessels  for  holy 
water. 

§ xlv.  It  is  easy  to  understand  how  an  architecture  which 
thus  appealed  not  less  to  the  lowest  instincts  of  dulness  than 

* Observe,  however,  that  the  magnitude  spoken  of  here  and  in  tfie 
following  passages,  is  the  finished  and  polished  magnitude  sought  fpy 
the  sake  of  pomp  : not  the  rough  magnitude  sought  for  the  sake  of  sub- 
limity : respecting  which  see  the  “Seven  Lamps,”  chap.  iii.  § 5,  6, 
and  8. 


68 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


to  the  subtlest  pride  of  learning,  rapidly  found  acceptance 
with  a large  body  of  mankind  ; and  how  the  spacious  pomp 
of  the  new  manner  of  design  came  to  be  eagerly  adopted  by 
the  luxurious  aristocracies,  not  only  of  Venice,  but  of  the 
other  countries  of  Christendom,  now  gradually  gathering 
themselves  into  that  insolent  and  festering  isolation,  against 
which  the  cry  of  the  poor  sounded  hourly  in  more  ominous 
unison,  bursting  at  last  into  thunder  (mark  where, — first 
among  the  planted  walks  and  plashing  fountains  of  the  palace 
wherein  the  Benaissance  luxury  attained  its  utmost  height  in 
Europe,  Versailles)  ; that  cry,  mingling  so  much  piteousness 
with  its  wrath  and  indignation,  “ Our  soul  is  filled  with  the 
scornful  reproof  of  the  wealthy,  and  with  the  despitefulness 
of  the  proud.” 

§ xlvi.  But  of  all  the  evidence  bearing  upon  this  subject 
presented  by  the  various  arts  of  the  fifteenth  century,  none  is 
so  interesting  or  so  conclusive  as  that  deduced  from  its  tombs. 
For,  exactly  in  proportion  as  the  pride  of  life  became  more 
insolent,  the  fear  of  death  became  more  servile  ; and  the  dif- 
ference in  the  manner  in  which  the  men  of  early  and  later 
days  adorned  the  sepulchre,  confesses  a still  greater  difference 
in  their  manner  of  regarding  death.  To  those  he  came  as  the 
comforter  and  the  friend,  rest  in  his  right  hand,  hope  in  his  left ; 
to  these  as  the  humiliator,  the  spoiler,  and  the  avenger.  And, 
therefore,  we  find  the  early  tombs  at  once  simple  and  lovely 
in  adornment,  severe  and  solemn  in  their  expression  ; confess- 
ing the  power,  and  accepting  the  peace,  of  death,  openly  and 
joyfully  ; and  in  all  their  symbols  marking  that  the  hope  of 
resurrection  lay  only  in  Christ’s  righteousness  ; signed  always  • 
with  this  simple  utterance  of  the  dead,  “ I will  lay  me  down 
in  peace,  and  take  my  rest  ; for  it  is  thou,  Lord,  only  that 
makest  me  dwell  in  safety.”  But  the  tombs  of  the  later  ages 
are  a ghastly  struggle  of  mean  pride  and  miserable  terror : 
the  one  mustering  the  statues  of  the  Virtues  about  the  tomb, 
disguising  the  sarcophagus  with  delicate  sculpture,  polishing 
the  false  periods  of  the  elaborate  epitaph,  and  filling  with 
strained  animation  the  features  of  the  portrait  statue  ; and 
the  other  summoning  underneath,  out  of  the  niche  or  from 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


69 


behind  the  curtain,  the  frowning  skull,  or  scythed  skeleton,  or 
some  other  more  terrible  image  of  the  enemy  in  whose  defi- 
ance the  whiteness  of  the  sepulchre  had  been  set  to  shine 
above  the  whiteness  of  the  ashes. 

§ xlvii.  This  change  in  the  feeling  with  which  sepulchral 
monuments  were  designed,  from  the  eleventh  to  the  eigh- 
teenth centuries,  has  been  common  to  the  whole  of  Europe. 
But,  as  Venice  is  in  other  respects  the  centre  of  the  Renais- 
sance system,  so  also  she  exhibits  this  change  in  the  manner 
of  the  sepulchral  monument  under  circumstances  peculiarly 
calculated  to  teach  us  its  true  character.  For  the  severe 
guard  which,  in  earlier  times,  she  put  upon  every  tendency  to 
personal  pomp  and  ambition,  renders  the  tombs  of  her  ancient 
monarchs  as  remarkable  for  modesty  and  simplicity  as  for 
their  religious  feeling  ; so  that,  in  this  respect,  they  are  sepa- 
rated by  a considerable  interval  from  the  more  costly  monu- 
ments erected  at  the  same  periods  to  the  kings  or  nobles  of 
other  European  states.  In  later  times,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
the  piety  of  the  Venetians  diminished,  their  pride  overleaped 
all  limits,  and  the  tombs  which  in  recent  epochs,  were  erected 
for  men  who  had  lived  only  to  impoverish  or  disgrace  the 
state,  were  as  much  more  magnificent  than  those  contempora- 
neously erected  for  the  nobles  of  Europe,  as  the  monuments 
for  the  great  Doges  had  been  humbler.  When,  in  addition 
to  this,  we  reflect  that  the  art  of  sculpture,  considered  as 
expressive  of  emotion,  was  at  a low  ebb  in  Venice  in  the 
twelfth  century,  and  that  in  the  seventeenth  she  took  the  lead 
in  Italy  in  luxurious  work,  we  shall  at  once  see  the  chain  of 
examples  through  which  the  change  of  feeling  is  expressed, 
must  present  more  remarkable  extremes  here  than  it  can  in 
any  other  city  ; extremes  so  startling  that  their  impressive- 
ness cannot  be  diminished,  while  their  intelligibility  is  greatly 
increased,  by  the  large  number  of  intermediate  types  which 
have  fortunately  been  preserved. 

It  would,  however,  too  much  weary  the  general  reader  if, 
without  illustrations,  I were  to  endeavor  to  lead  him  step  by 
step  through  the  aisles  of  St.  John  and  Paul  ; and  I shall 
therefore  confine  myself  to  a slight  notice  of  those  features  in 


70 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


sepulchral  architecture  generally  which  are  especially  illustra- 
tive of  the  matter  at  present  in  hand,  and  point  out  the  order 
in  which,  if  joossible,  the  traveller  should  visit  the  tombs  in 
Venice,  so  as  to  be  most  deeply  impressed  with  the  true  char- 
acter of  the  lessons  they  convey. 

§ xlviii.  I have  not  such  an  acquaintance  with  the  modes 
of  entombment  or  memorial  in  the  earliest  age&of  Christianity 
as  would  justify  me  in  making  any  general  statement  respect- 
ing them  : but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  perfect  type  of  a Chris- 
tian tomb  was  not  developed  until  toward  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, sooner  or  later  according  to  the  civilization  of  each 
country  ; that  perfect  type  consisting  in  the  raised  and  per- 
fectly visible  sarcophagus  of  stone,  bearing  upon  it  a recum- 
bent figure,  and  the  whole  covered  by  a canopy.  Before  that 
type  was  entirely  developed,  and  in  the  more  ordinary  tombs 
contemporary  with  it,  we  find  the  simple  sarcophagus,  often 
with  only  a rough  block  of  stone  for  its  lid,  sometimes  with  a 
low-gabled  lid  like  a cottage  roof,  derived  from  Egyptian 
forms,  and  bearing,  either  on  the  sides  or  the  lid,  at  least  a 
sculpture  of  the  cross,  and  sometimes  the  name  of  the 
deceased,  and  date  of  erection  of  the  tomb.  In  more  elabo- 
rate examples  rich  figure-sculpture  is  gradually  introduced  ; 
and  in  the  perfect  period  the  sarcophagus,  even  when  it  does 
not  bear  any  recumbent  figure,  has  generally  a rich  sculpture 
on  its  sides  representing  an  angel  presenting  the  dead,  in 
person  and  dress  as  he  lived,  to  Christ  or  to  the  Madonna, 
with  lateral  figures,  sometimes  of  saints,  sometimes — as  in  the 
tombs  of  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy  at  Dijon — of  mourners  ; but 
in  Venice  almost  always  representing  the  Annunciation,  the 
angel  being  placed  at  one  angle  of  the  sarcophagus,  and  the 
Madonna  at  the  other.  The  canopy,  in  a very  simple  four- 
square form,  or  as  an  arch  over  a recess,  is  added  above  the 
sarcophagus,  long  before  the  life-size  recumbent  figure  appears 
resting  upon  it.  By  the  time  that  the  sculptors  had  acquired 
skill  enough  to  give  much  expression  to  this  figure,  the  canopy 
attains  an  exquisite  symmetry  and  richness  ; and,  in  the  most 
elaborate  examples,  is  surmounted  by  a statue,  generally 
small,  representing  the  dead  person  in  the  full  strength  and 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


71 


pride  of  life,  while  the  recumbent  figure  shows  him  as  he  lay 
in  death.  And,  at  this  point,  the  perfect  type  of  the  Gothic 
tomb  is  reached. 

§ xlix.  Of  the  simple  sarcophagus  tomb  there  are  many 
exquisite  examples  both  at  Venice  and  Verona  ; the  most 
interesting  in  Venice  are  those  which  are  set  in  the  recesses 
of  the  rude  brick  front  of  the  Church  of  St.  John  and  Paul, 
ornamented  only,  for  the  most  part,  with  two  crosses  set  in 
circles,  and  the  legend  with  the  name  of  the  dead,  and  an 
“ Orate  pro  anima  ” in  another  circle  in  the  centre.  And  in 
this  we  may  note  one  great  proof  of  superiority  in  Italian 
over  English  tombs  ; the  latter  being  often  enriched  with 
quatrefoils,  small  shafts,  and  arches,  and  other  ordinary  archi- 
tectural decorations,  which  destroy  their  seriousness  and 
solemnity,  render  them  little  more  than  ornamental,  and  have 
no  religious  meaning  whatever  ; while  the  Italian  sarcophagi 
are  kept  massive,  smooth,  and  gloomy, — heavy-lidded  dun- 
geons of  stone,  like  rock-tombs, — but  bearing  on  their  sur- 
face, sculptured  with  tender  and  narrow  lines,  the  emblem  of 
the  cross,  not  presumptuously  nor  proudly,  but  dimly  graven 
upon  their  granite,  like  the  hope  which  the  human  heart 
holds,  but  hardly  perceives  in  its  heaviness. 

§ l.  Among  the  tombs  in  front  of  the  Church  of  St.  John 
and  Paul  there  is  one  which  is  peculiarly  illustrative  of  the 
simplicity  of  these  earlier  ages.  It  is  on  the  left  of  the  en- 
trance, a massy  sarcophagus  with  low  horns  as  of  an  altar, 
placed  in  a rude  recess  of  the  outside  wall,  shattered  and  worn, 
and  here  and  there  entangled  among  wild  grass  and  weeds. 
Yet  it  is  the  tomb  of  two  Doges,  Jacopo  and  Lorenzo  Tiepolo, 
by  one  of  whom  nearly  the  whole  ground  was  given  for  the 
erection  of  the  noble  church  in  front  of  which  his  unprotected 
tomb  is  wasting  away.  The  sarcophagus  bears  an  inscription 
in  the  centre,  describing  the  acts  of  the  Doges,  of  which  the 
letters  show  that  it  was  added  a considerable  period  after  the 
erection  of  the  tomb  : the  original  legend  is  still  left  in  other 
letters  on  its  base,  to  this  effect, 


* Lord  James,  died  1251.  Lord  Laurence,  died  1288. 


72 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE \ 


At  the  two  corners  of  the  sarcophagus  are  two  angels  bearing 
censers  ; and  on  its  lid  two  birds,  with  crosses  like  crests  upon 
their  heads.  For  the  sake  of  the  traveller  in  Venice  the 
reader  will,  I think,  pardon  me  the  momentary  irrelevancy  of 
telling  the  meaning  of  these  symbols. 

§ li.  The  foundation  of  the  church  of  St.  John  and  Paul 
was  laid  by  the  Dominicans  about  1234,  under  the  immediate 
protection  of  the  Senate  and  the  Doge  Giacomo  Tiepolo,  ac- 
corded to  them  in  consequence  of  a miraculous  vision  appear- 
ing  to  the  Doge  ; of  which  the  following  account  is  given  in 
popular  tradition  : 

“ In  the  year  1226,  the  Doge  Giacomo  Tiepolo  dreamed  a 
dream ; and  in  his  dream  he  saw  the  little  oratory  of  the 
Dominicans,  and,  behold,  the  ground  all  around  it  (now  occu- 
pied by  the  church)  was  covered  with  roses  of  the  color  of 
vermilion,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  their  fragrance.  And  in 
the  midst  of  the  roses,  there  were  seen  flying  to  and  fro  a 
crowd  of  white  doves,  with  golden  crosses  upon  their  heads. 
And  while  the  Doge  looked,  and  wondered,  behold,  two  angels 
descended  from  heaven  with  golden  censers,  and  passing 
through  the  oratory,  and  forth  among  the  flowers,  they  filled 
the  place  with  the  smoke  of  their  incense.  Then  the  Doge  heard 
suddenly  a clear  and  loud  voice  which  proclaimed,  c This  is  the 
place  that  I have  chosen  for  my  preachers  ; ’ and  having  heard 
it,  straightway  he  awoke  and  went  to  the  Senate,  and  declared 
to  them  the  vision.  Then  the  Senate  decreed  that  forty  paces 
of  ground  should  be  given  to  enlarge  the  monastery  ; and  the 
Doge  Tiepolo  himself  made  a still  larger  grant  afterwards.” 

There  is  nothing  miraculous  in  the  occurrence  of  such  a 
dream  as  this  to  the  devout  Doge  ; and  the  fact,  of  which 
there  is  no  doubt,  that  the  greater  part  of  the  land  on  which 
the  church  stands  was  given  by  him,  is  partly  a confirmation 
of  the  story.  But,  whether  the  sculptures  on  the  tomb  were 
records  of  the  vision,  or  the  vision  a monkish  invention  from 
the  sculptures  on  the  tomb,  the  reader  will  not,  I believe,  look 
upon  its  doves  and  crosses,  or  rudely  carved  angels,  any  more 
with  disdain  ; knowing  how,  in  one  way  or  another,  they  were 
connected  with  a point  of  deep  religious  belief. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


73 


§ lii.  Towards  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
in  Venice,  the  recumbent  figure  begins  to  appear  on  the  sar- 
cophagus, the  first  dated  example  being  also  one  of  the  most 
beautiful ; the  statue  of  the  prophet  Simeon,  sculptured  upon 
the  tomb  which  was  to  receive  his  relics  in  the  church  dedi- 
cated to  him  under  the  name  of  San  Simeone  Grande.  So  soon 
as  the  figure  appears,  the  sarcophagus  becomes  much  more 
richly  sculptured,  but  always  with  definite  religious  purpose. 
It  is  usually  divided  into  two  panels,  which  are  filled  with 
small  bas-reliefs  of  the  acts  or  martyrdom  of  the  patron  saints 
of  the  deceased : between  them,  in  the  centre,  Christ,  or  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  are  richly  enthroned,  under  a curtained 
canopy  ; and  the  two  figures  representing  the  Annunciation 
are  almost  always  at  the  angles  ; the  promise  of  the  Birth  of 
Christ  being  taken  as  at  once  the  ground  and  the  type  of  the 
promise  of  eternal  life  to  all  men. 

§ liii.  These  figures  are  always  in  Venice  most  rudely 
chiselled  ; the  progress  of  figure  sculpture  being  there  com- 
paratively tardy.  At  Verona,  where  the  great  Pisan  school 
had  strong  influence,  the  monumental  sculpture  is  immeasur- 
ably finer  ; and,  so  early  as  about  the  year  1335,*  the  consum- 
mate form  of  the  Gothic  tomb  occurs  in  the  monument  of  Can 
Grande  della  Scala  at  Verona.  It  is  set  over  the  portal  of  the 
chapel  anciently  belonging  to  the  family.  The  sarcophagus 
is  sculptured  with  shallow  bas-reliefs,  representing  (which  is 
rare  in  the  tombs  with  which  I am  acquainted  in  Italy,  unless 
they  are  those  of  saints)  the  principal  achievements  of  the 
warrior’s  life,  especially  the  siege  of  Vicenza  and  battle  of  Pia- 
cenza ; these  sculptures,  however,  form  little  more  than  a 
chased  and  roughened  groundwork  for  the  fully  relieved 
statues  representing  the  Annunciation,  projecting  boldly  from 
the  front  of  the  sarcophagus.  Above,  the  Lord  of  Verona  i.i 
laid  in  his  long  robe  of  civil  dignity,  wearing  the  simple 
bonnet,  consisting  merely  of  a fillet  bound  round  the  brow, 
knotted  and  falling  on  the  shoulder.  He  is  laid  as  asleep  ; 
his  arms  crossed  upon  his  body,  and  his  sw'ord  by  his  side. 

* Can  Grande  died  in  1329  : we  can  liardly  allow  more  than  five  years 
for  the  erection  of  his  tomb. 


74 


THE  ST  0 EES  OF  VENICE. 


Above  him,  a bold  arched  canopy  is  sustained  by  two  project* 
ing  shafts,  and  on  the  pinnacle  of  its  roof  is  the  statue  of  the 
knight  on  his  war-horse ; his  helmet,  dragon-winged  and 
crested  with  the  dog’s  head,  tossed  back  behind  his  shoulders, 
and  the  broad  and  blazoned  drapery  floating  back  from  his 
horse’s  breast, — so  truly  drawn  by  the  old  workman  from  the 
life,  that  it  seems  to  wave  in  the  wind,  and  the  knight’s  spear 
to  shake,  and  his  marble  horse  to  be  evermore  quickening  its 
pace,  and  starting  into  heavier  and  hastier  charge,  as  the  sil- 
ver clouds  float  past  behind  it  in  the  sky. 

§ liv.  Now  observe,  in  this  tomb,  as  much  concession  is 
made  to  the  pride  of  man  as  may  ever  consist  with  honor, 
discretion,  or  dignity.  I do  not  enter  into  any  question  re- 
specting the  character  of  Can  Grande,  though  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  he  was  one  of  the  best  among  the  nobles  of 
his  time  ; but  that  is  not  to  our  purpose.  It  is  not  the  ques- 
tion whether  his  wars  were  just,  or  his  greatness  honorably 
achieved  ; but  whether,  supposing  them  to  have  been  so,  these 
facts  are  well  and  gracefully  told  upon  his  tomb.  And  I be- 
lieve there  can  be  no  hesitation  in  the  admission  of  its  perfect 
feeling  and  truth.  Though  beautiful,  the  tomb  is  so  little 
conspicuous  or  intrusive,  that  it  serves  only  to  decorate  the 
portal  of  the  little  chapel,  and  is  hardly  regarded  by  the 
traveller  as  he  enters.  When  it  is  examined,  the  history  of 
the  acts  of  the  dead  is  found  subdued  into  dim  and  minute 
ornament  upon  his  coffin  ; and  the  principal  aim  of  the  monu- 
ment is  to  direct  the  thoughts  to  his  image  as  he  lies  in  death, 
and  to  the  expression  of  his  hope  of  resurrection  ; while,  seen 
as  by  the  memory  far  away,  diminished  in  the  brightness  of 
the  sky,  there  is  set  the  likeness  of  his  armed  youth,  stately, 
as  it  stood  of  old,  in  the  front  of  battle,  and  meet  to  be  thus 
recorded  for  us,  that  we  may  now  be  able  to  remember  the 
dignity  of  the  frame,  of  which  those  who  once  looked  upon  it 
hardly  remembered  that  it  was  dust. 

§ lv.  This,  I repeat,  is  as  much  as  may  ever  be  granted, 
but  this  ought  always  to  be  granted,  to  the  honor  and  the 
affection  of  men.  The  tomb  which  stands  beside  that  of  Can 
Grande,  nearest  it  in  the  little  field  of  sleep,  already  shows 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


75 


the  traces  of  erring  ambition.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mastino  the 
Second,  in  whose  reign  began  the  decline  of  his  family.  It  is 
altogether  exquisite  as  a work  of  art ; and  the  evidence  of  a 
less  wise  or  noble  feeling  in  its  design  is  found  only  in  this, 
that  the  image  of  a virtue,  Fortitude,  as  belonging  to  the 
dead,  is  placed  on  the  extremity  of  the  sarcophagus,  opposite 
to  the  Crucifixion.  But  for  this  slight  circumstance,  of  which 
the  significance  will  only  be  appreciated  as  we  examine  the 
series  of  later  monuments,  the  composition  of  this  monument 
of  Can  Mastino  would  have  been  as  perfect  as  its  decoration 
is  refined.  It  consists,  like  that  of  Can  Grande,  of  the  raised 
sarcophagus,  bearing  the  recumbent  statue,  protected  by  a 
noble  four-square  canopy,  sculptured  with  ancient  Scripture 
history.  On  one  side  of  the  sarcophagus  is  Christ  enthroned, 
with  Can  Mastino  kneeling  before  Him  ; on  the  other,  Christ 
is  represented  in  the  mystical  form,  half -rising  from  the  tomb, 
meant,  I believe,  to  be  at  once  typical  of  His  passion  and 
resurrection.  The  lateral  panels  are  occupied  by  statues  of 
saints.  At  one  extremity  of  the  sarcophagus  is  the  Crucifix- 
ion ; at  the  other,  a noble  statue  of  Fortitude,  with  a lion’s 
skin  thrown  over  her  shoulders,  its  head  forming  a shield 
upon  her  breast,  her  flowing  hair  bound  with  a narrow  fillet, 
and  a tliree-edged  sword  in  her  gauntleted  right  hand,  drawn 
back  sternly  behind  her  thigh,  while,  in  her  left,  she  bears 
high  the  shield  of  the  Scalas. 

§ lvi.  Close  to  this  monument  is  another,  the  stateliest  and 
most  sumptuous  of  the  three  ; it  first  arrests  the  eye  of  the 
stranger,  and  long  detains  it, — a many-pinnacled  pile  sur- 
rounded by  niches  with  statues  of  the  warrior  saints. 

It  is  beautiful,  for  it  still  belongs  to  the  noble  time,  the 
latter  part  of  the  fourteenth  century  ; but  its  work  is  coarser 
than  that  of  the  other,  and  its  pride  may  w^ell  prepare  us  to 
learn  that  it  was  built  for  himself,  in  his  own  lifetime,  by  the 
man  whose  statue  crowns  it,  Can  Signorio  della  Scala.  Now 
observe,  for  this  is  infinitely  significant.  Can  Mastino  II.  was 
feeble  and  wicked,  and  began  the  ruin  of  his  house  ; his  sar- 
cophagus is  the  first  which  bears  upon  it  the  image  of  a virtue, 
but  he  lays  claim  only  to  Fortitude.  Can  Signorio  was  twice 


76 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


a fratricide,  the  last  time  when  he  lay  upon  his  death-bed  : his 
tomb  bears  upon  its  gables  the  images  of  six  virtues, — Faith, 
Hope,  Charity,  Prudence,  and  (I  believe)  Justice  and  Forti- 
tude. 

§ lvii.  Let  us  now  return  to  Venice,  where,  in  the  second 
chapel  counting  from  right  to  left,  at  the  west  end  of  the 
Church  of  the  Frari,  there  is  a very  early  fourteenth,  or  per- 
haps late  thirteenth,  century  tomb,  another  exquisite  example 
of  the  perfect  Gothic  form.  It  is  a knight’s  ; but  there  is  no 
inscription  upon  it,  and  his  name  is  unknown.  It  consists  of  a 
sarcophagus,  supported  on  bold  brackets  against  the  chapel 
wall,  bearing  the  recumbent  figure,  protected  by  a simple  can- 
opy in  the  form  of  a pointed  arch,  pinnacled  by  the  knight’s 
crest ; beneath  which  the  shadowy  space  is  painted  dark  blue, 
and  strewn  with  stars.  The  statue  itself  is  rudely  carved  ; but 
its  lines,  as  seen  from  the  intended  distance,  are  both  tender 
and  masterly.  The  knight  is  laid  in  his  mail,  only  the  hands 
and  face  being  bare.  The  hauberk  and  helmet  are  of  chain- 
mail,  the  armor  for  the  limbs  of  jointed  steel ; a tunic,  fitting 
close  to  the  breast,  and  marking  the  noble  swell  of  it  by  two 
narrow  embroidered  lines,  is  worn  over  the  mail ; his  dagger 
is  at  his  right  side  ; his  long  cross-belted  sword,  not  seen  by 
the  spectator  from  below,  at  his  left.  His  feet  rest  on  a hound 
(the  hound  being  his  crest),  which  looks  up  towards  its  master. 
In  general,  in  tombs  of  this  kind,  the  face  of  the  statue  is 
slightly  turned  towards  the  spectator  ; in  this  monument,  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  turned  away  from  him,  towards  the  depth 
of  the  arch  : for  there,  just  above  the  warrior’s  breast,  is  carved 
a small  image  of  St.  Joseph  bearing  the  infant  Christ,  who 
looks  down  upon  the  resting  figure  ; and  to  this  image  its 
countenance  is  turned.  The  appearance  of  the  entire  tomb  is 
as  if  the  warrior  had  seen  the  vision  of  Christ  in  his  dying 
moments,  and  had  fallen  back  peacefully  upon  his  pillow,  with 
his  eyes  still  turned  to  it,  and  his  hands  clasped  in  prayer. 

§ lviii.  On  the  opposite  side  of  this  chapel  is  another  very 
lovely  tomb,  to  Duccio  degli  Alberti,  a Florentine  ambassador 
at  Venice  ; noticeable  chiefly  as  being  the  first  in  Venice  on 
which  any  images  of  the  Virtues  appear.  We  shall  return  to 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


77 


it  presently,  but  some  account  must  first  be  given  of  the  more 
important  among  the  other  tombs  in  Venice  belonging  to  the 
perfect  period.  Of  these,  by  far  the  most  interesting,  though 
not  the  most  elaborate,  is  that  of  the  great  Doge  Francesco 
Dcindolo,  whose  ashes,  it  might  have  been  thought,  were  hon- 
orable enough  to  have  been  permitted  to  rest  undisturbed  in 
the  chapter-house  of  the  Frari,  where  they  were  first  laid. 
But,  as  if  there  were  not  room  enough,  nor  waste  houses 
enough  in  the  desolate  city  to  receive  a few  convent  papers, 
the  monks,  wanting  an  “ archivio,”  have  separated  the  tomb 
into  three  pieces  : the  canopy,  a simple  arch  sustained  on 
brackets,  still  remains  on  the  blank  walls  of  the  desecrated 
chamber  ; the  sarcophagus  has  been  transported  to  a kind  of 
museum  of  antiquities,  established  in  what  wras  once  the  clois- 
ter of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute  ; and  the  painting  which  filled 
the  lunette  behind  it  is  hung  far  out  of  sight,  at  one  end  of 
the  sacristy  of  the  same  church.  The  sarcophagus  is  com- 
pletely charged  with  bas-reliefs  : at  its  two  extremities  are 
the  types  of  St.  Mark  and  St.  John  ; in  front,  a noble  sculpt- 
ure of  the  death  of  the  Virgin  ; at  the  angles,  angels  holding 
vases.  The  whole  space  is  occupied  by  the  sculpture  ; there 
are  no  spiral  shafts  or  panelled  divisions  ; only  a basic  plinth 
below,  and  crowning  plinth  above,  the  sculpture  being  raised 
from  a deep  concave  field  between  the  two,  but,  in  order  to 
give  piquancy  and  picturesqueness  to  the  mass  of  figures,  two 
small  trees  are  introduced  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the  Ma- 
donna’s couch,  an  oak  and  a stone  pine. 

§ lix.  It  was  said  above,*  in  speaking  of  the  frequent  dis- 
putes of  the  Venetians  with  the  Pontifical  power,  which  in 
their  early  days  they  had  so  strenuously  supported,  that  “ the 
humiliation  of  Francesco  Dandolo  blotted  out  the  shame  of 
Barbarossa.”  It  is  indeed  well  that  the  two  events  should  be 
remembered  together.  By  the  help  of  the  Venetians,  Alexan- 
der III.  was  enabled,  in  the  twelfth  century,  to  put  his  foot 
upon  the  neck  of  the  emperor  Barbarossa,  quoting  the  words 
of  the  Psalm,  “ Thou  shalt  tread  upon  the  lion  and  the  adder.” 
A hundred  and  fifty  years  later,  the  Venetian  ambassador, 
* Vol.  I.  Chap.  L 


78 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Francesco  Dandolo,  unable  to  obtain  even  an  audience  from 
the  Pope,  Clement  V.,  to  whom  he  had  been  sent  to  pray  for 
a removal  of  the  sentence  of  excommunication  pronounced 
against  the  republic,  concealed  himself  (according  to  the  com- 
mon tradition)  beneath  the  Pontiff’s  dining-table  ; and  thence 
coming  out  as  he  sat  down  to  meat,  embraced  his  feet,  and 
obtained,  by  tearful  entreaties,  the  removal  of  the  terrible 
sentence. 

I say,  “ according  to  the  common  tradition  ; ” for  there  are 
some  doubts  cast  upon  the  story  by  its  supplement.  Most  of 
the  Venetian  historians  assert  that  Francesco  Dandolo’s  sur- 
name of  “Dog”  was  given  him  first  on  this  occasion,  in  insult, 
by  the  cardinals  ; and  that  the  Venetians,  in  remembrance  of 
the  grace  which  his  humiliation  had  won  for  them,  made  it  a 
title  of  honor  to  him  and  to  his  race.  It  has,  however,  been 
proved*  that  the  surname  was  borne  by  the  ancestors  of 
Francesco  Dandolo  long  before  ; and  the  falsity  of  this  seal 
of  the  legend  renders  also  its  circumstances  doubtful.  But 
the  main  fact  of  grievous  humiliation  having  been  undergone, 
admits  of  no  dispute  ; the  existence  of  such  a tradition  at  all 
is  in  itself  a proof  of  its  truth  ; it  was  not  one  likely  to  be 
either  invented  or  received  without  foundation  : and  it  will  be 
well,  therefore,  that  the  reader  should  remember,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  treatment  of  Barbarossa  at  the  door  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Mark’s,  that  in  the  Vatican,  one  hundred  and 
fifty  years  later,  a Venetian  noble,  a future  Doge,  submitted 
to  a degradation,  of  which  the  current  report  among  his  peo- 
ple was,  that  he  had  crept  on  his  hands  and  knees  from  be- 
neath the  Pontiff’s  table  to  his  feet,  and  had  been  spurned  as 
a “dog”  by  the  cardinals  present. 

§ LX„  There  are  two  principal  conclusions  to  be  drawn  from 
this  : the  obvious  one  respecting  the  insolence  of  the  Papal 
dominion  in  the  thirteenth  century  ; the  second,  that  there 
were  probably  most  deep  piety  and  humility  in  the  character 
of  the  man  who  could  submit  to  this  insolence  for  the  sake 
of  a benefit  to  his  country.  Probably  no  motive  would  have 
been  strong  enough  to  obtain  such  a sacrifice  from  most  mer^ 
* Sansovino,  lib.  xiii. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


79 


however  unselfish  ; but  it  was,  without  doubt,  made  easier  to 
Dandolo  by  his  profound  reverence  for  the  Pontifical  office  ; 
a reverence  which,  however  we  may  now  esteem  those  who 
claimed  it,  could  not  but  have  been  felt  by  nearly  all  good  and 
faithful  men  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking.  This  is 
the  main  point  which  I wish  the  reader  to  remember  as  we 
look  at  his  tomb,  this,  and  the  result  of  it, — that,  some  years 
afterwards,  when  he  wTas  seated  on  the  throne  which  his  piety 
had  saved,  “ there  were  sixty  princes’  ambassadors  in  Venice 
at  the  same  time,  requesting  the  judgment  of  the  Senate  on 
matters  of  various  concernment,  so  great  was  the  fame  of  the 
uncorrupted  justice  of  the  Fathers”* 

Observe,  there  are  no  virtues  on  this  tomb.  Nothing  but 
religious  history  or  symbols  ; the  Death  of  the  Virgin  in 
front,  and  the  types  of  St.  Mark  and  St.  John  at  the  ex- 
tremities. 

§ lxi.  Of  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo,  in  St. 
Mark’s,  I have  spoken  before.  It  is  one  of  the  first  in  Venice 
which  presents,  in  a canopy,  the  Pisan  idea  of  angels  with- 
drawing curtains,  as  of  a couch,  to  look  down  upon  the  dead. 
The  sarcophagus  is  richly  decorated  with  flower-wrork  ; the 
usual  figures  of  the  Annunciation  are  at  the  sides ; an  en- 
throned Madonna  in  the  centre  ; and  two  bas-reliefs,  one  of 
the  martyrdom  of  the  Doge’s  patron  saint,  St.  Andrew,  occupy 
the  intermediate  spaces.  All  these  tombs  have  been  richly 
colored  ; the  hair  of  the  angels  has  here  been  gilded,  their 
wings  bedropped  with  silver,  and  their  garments  covered  with 
the  most  exquisite  arabesques.  This  tomb,  and  that  of  St. 
Isidore  in  another  chapel  of  St.  Mark’s,  which  was  begun  by 
this  very  Doge,  Andrea  Dandolo,  and  completed  after  his 
death  in  1354,  are  both  nearly  alike  in  their  treatment,  and 
are,  on  the  whole,  the  best  existing  examples  of  Venetian 
monumental  sculpture. 

§ lxii.  Of  much  ruder  workmanship,  though  still  most 
precious,  and  singularly  interesting  from  its  quaintness,  is  a 
sarcophagus  in  the  northernmost  chapel,  beside  the  choir  of 
St.  John  and  St.  Paul,  charged  with  two  bas-reliefs  and  many 
* Tentori,  vi.  142,  i.  157. 


80 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


figures,  but  which  bears  no  inscription.  It  has,  however,  a 
shield  with  three  dolphins  on  its  brackets  ; and  as  at  the  feet 
of  the  Madonna  in  its  centre  there  is  a small  kneeling  figure 
of  a Doge,  we  know  it  to  be  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Giovanni 
Dolfino,  who  came  to  the  throne  in  1356. 

He  was  chosen  Doge  while,  as  provveditore,  he  was  in  Tre- 
viso, defending  the  city  against  the  King  of  Hungary.  The 
Venetians  sent  to  the  besiegers,  praying  that  their  newly 
elected  Doge  might  be  permitted  to  pass  the  Hungarian  lines. 
Their  request  was  refused,  the  Hungarians  exulting  that  they 
held  the  Doge  of  Venice  prisoner  in  Treviso.  But  Dolfino, 
with  a body  of  two  hundred  horse,  cut  his  way  through  their 
lines  by  night,  and  reached  Mestre  (Malghera)  in  safety,  where 
he  was  met  by  the  Senate.  His  bravery  could  not  avert  the 
misfortunes  which  were  accumulating  on  the  republic.  The 
Hungarian  war  was  ignominiously  terminated  by  the  surrender 
of  Dalmatia : the  Doge’s  heart  was  broken,  his  eyesight  failed 
him,  and  he  died  of  the  plague  four  years  after  he  had  as- 
cended the  throne. 

§ lxiii.  It  is  perhaps  on  this  account,  perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  later  injuries,  that  the  tomb  has  neither  effigy  nor 
inscription  : that  it  has  been  subjected  to  some  violence  is 
evident  from  the  dentil  which  once  crowned  its  leaf-cornice 
being  now  broken  away,  showing  the  whole  front.  But,  fort- 
unately, the  sculpture  of  the  sarcophagus  itself  is  little  in- 
jured. 

There  are  two  saints,  male  and  female,  at  its  angles,  each 
in  a little  niche  ; a Christ,  enthroned  in  the  centre,  the  Doge 
and  Dogaressa  kneeling  at  liis  feet ; in  the  two  intermediate 
panels,  on  one  side  the  Epiphany,  on  the  other  the  Death  of 
the  Virgin  ; the  whole  supported,  as  well  as  crowned,  by  an 
elaborate  leaf-plinth.  The  figures  under  the  niches  are  rudely 
cut,  and  of  little  interest.  Not  so  the  central  group.  Instead 
of  a niche,  the  Christ  is  seated  under  a square  tent,  or  tab- 
ernacle, formed  by  curtains  running  on  rods  ; the  idea,  of 
course,  as  usual,  borrowed  from  the  Pisan  one,  but  here  in- 
geniously applied.  The  curtains  are  opened  in  front,  showing 
those  at  the  back  of  the  tent,  behind  the  seated  figure  ; the 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


81 


perspective  of  the  two  retiring  sides  being  very  tolerably  sug- 
gested. Two  angels,  of  half  the  size  of  the  seated  figure, 
thrust  back  the  near  curtains,  and  look  up  reverently  to  the 
Christ ; while  again,  at  their  feet,  about  one  third  of  their 
size,  and  half-sheltered,  as  it  seems,  by  their  garments,  are  the 
two  kneeling  figures  of  the  Doge  and  Dogaressa,  though  so 
small  and  carefully  cut,  full  of  life.  The  Christ  raising  one 
hand  as  to  bless,  and  holding  a book  upright  and  open  on  the 
knees,  does  not  look  either  towards  them  or  to  the  angels, 
but  forward ; and  there  is  a very  noticeable  effort  to  represent 
Divine  abstraction  in  the  countenance  : the  idea  of  the  three 
magnitudes  of  spiritual  being, — the  God,  the  Angel,  and  the 
Man, — is  also  to  be  observed,  aided  as  it  is  by  the  complete 
subjection  of  the  angelic  power  to  the  Divine  ; for  the  angels 
are  in  attitudes  of  the  most  lowly  watchfulness  of  the  face  of 
Christ,  and  appear  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  the  human 
beings  who  are  nestled  in  the  folds  of  their  garments. 

§ lxiv.  With  this  interesting  but  modest  tomb  of  one  of 
the  kings  of  Venice,  it  is  desirable  to  compare  that  of  one  of 
her  senators,  of  exactly  the  same  date,  which  is  raised  against 
the  western  wrall  of  the  Frari,  at  the  end  of  the  north  aisle.  It 
bears  the  following  remarkable  inscription  : 

“AnnoMCCCLX.  prim  a die  Julii  Sepulatura  . Domini  . 

SlMONII  DANDOLO  . AMADOR  . DE  . JUSTISIA  . E . DESIROSO  . 

DE  . ACRESE  . EL  . BEN  . CHOMUM.” 

The  “ Amador  de  Justitia”  has  perhaps  some  reference  to 
Simon  Dandolo’s  having  been  one  of  the  Giunta  who  con- 
demned the  Doge  Faliero.  The  sarcophagus  is  decorated 
merely  by  the  Annunciation  group,  and  an  enthroned  Madonna 
with  a curtain  behind  her  throne,  sustained  by  four  tiny  an- 
gels, who  look  over  it  as  they  hold  it  up  ; but  the  workman- 
ship of  the  figures  is  more  than  usually  beautiful. 

§ lxv.  Seven  years  later,  a very  noble  monument  was  placed 
on  the  north  side  of  the  choir  of  St.  John  and  Paul,  to  the 
Doge  Marco  Cornaro,  chiefly,  wdth  respect  to  our  present  sub- 
ject, noticeable  for  the  absence  of  religious  imagery  from  the 
sarcophagus,  wdiich  is  decorated  wdtli  roses  only  ; three  very 
Vol.  III.— 6 


82 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


beautiful  statues  of  the  Madonna  and  two  saints  are,  however, 
set  in  the  canopy  above.  Opposite  this  tomb,  though  about 
fifteen  years  later  in  date,  is  the  richest  monument  of  the 
Gothic  period  in  Venice  ; that  of  the  Doge  Michele  Morosini, 
who  died  in  1382.  It  consists  of  a highly  florid  canopy, — an 
arch  crowned  by  a gable,  with  pinnacles  at  the  flanks,  boldly 
crocheted,  and  with  a huge  finial  at  the  top  representing  St. 
Michael, — a medallion  of  Christ  set  in  the  gable  ; under  the 
arch,  a mosaic,  representing  the  Madonna  presenting  the  Doge 
to  Christ  upon  the  cross  ; beneath,  as  usual,  the  sarcophagus, 
with  a most  noble  recumbent  figure  of  the  Doge,  his  face 
meagre  and  severe,  and  sharp  in  its  lines,  but  exquisite  in  the 
form  of  its  small  and  princely  features.  The  sarcophagus  is 
adorned  with  elaborate  wrinkled  leafage,  projecting  in  front 
of  it  into  seven  brackets,  from  which  the  statues- are  broken 
away  ; but  by  which,  for  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  these 
last  statues  represented  the  theological  and  cardinal  Virtues, 
we  must  for  a moment  pause. 

§ lxvi.  It  was  noticed  above,  that  the  tomb  of  the  Floren- 
tine ambassador,  Duccio,  was  the  first  in  Venice  which  pre- 
sented images  of  the  Virtues.  Its  small  lateral  statues  of 
Justice  and  Temperance  are  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  wTere,  I 
have  no  doubt,  executed  by  a Florentine  sculptor  ; the  wdiole 
range  of  artistical  power  and  religious  feeling  being,  in  Flor- 
ence, full  half  a century  in  advance  of  that  of  Venice.  But 
this  is  the  first  truly  Venetian  tomb  which  has  the  Virtues  ; 
and  it  becomes  of  importance,  therefore,  to  know  what  was 
the  character  of  Morosini. 

The  reader  must  recollect,  that  I dated  the  commencement 
of  the  fall  of  Venice  from  the  death  of  Carlo  Zeno,  consider- 
ing that  no  state  could  be  held  as  in  decline,  which  numbered 
such  a man  amongst  its  citizens.  Carlo  Zeno  was  a candidate 
for  the  Ducal  bonnet  together  with  Michael  Morosini ; and 
Morosini  was  chosen.  It  might  be  anticipated,  therefore,  that 
there  w'as  something  more  than  usually  admirable  or  illustrious 
in  his  character.  Yet  it  is  difficult  to  arrive  at  a just  estimate 
of  it,  as  the  reader  will  at  once  understand  by  comparing  the 
following  statements  : 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


83 


§ lxyii.  1.  “To  liim  (Andrea  Contarini)  succeeded  Morosini,  at  the 
age  of  seventy-four  years  ; a most  learned  and  prudent  man,  who  also  re- 
formed several  laws.’' — Sansovino , Yite  de’  Principi. 

2.  “It  was  generally  believed  that,  if  his  reign  had  been  longer,  he 
would  have  dignified  the  state  by  many  noble  laws  and  institutes ; but 
by  so  much  as  his  reign  was  full  of  hope,  by  as  much  was  it  short  in 
duration,  for  he  died  when  he  had  been  at  the  head  of  the  republic  but 
lour  months  ”—Sabellico,  lib.  viii. 

3.  “He  was  allowed  but  a short  time  to  enjoy  this  high  dignity,  which 
he  had  so  well  deserved  by  his  rare  virtues,  for  God  called  him  to  Him- 
self on  the  loth  of  October.” — Muratori , Annali  de’  Italia. 

4.  “ Two  candidates  presented  themselves  ; one  was  Zeno,  the  other 
that  Michael  Morosini  who,  during  the  war,  had  tripled  his  fortune 
by  his  speculations.  The  suffrages  of  the  electors  fell  upon  him,  and 
he  was  proclaimed  Doge  on  the  10th  of  June.” — Daru , Histoire  de 
Yenise,  lib.  x. 

5.  “The  choice  of  the  electors  was  directed  to  Michele  Morosini,  a 
noble  of  illustrious  birth,  derived  from  a stock  which,  coeval  with  the 
republic  itself,  had  produced  the  conqueror  of  Tyre,  given  a queen  to 
Hungary,  and  more  than  one  Doge  to  Venice.  The  brilliancy  of  this 
descent  was  tarnished  in  the  present  chief  representative  of  the  family 
by  the  most  base  and  grovelling  avarice  ; for  at  that  moment,  in  the  re- 
cent war,  at  which  all  other  Venetians  were  devoting  their  whole  fort- 
unes to  the  service  of  the  state,  Morosini  sought  in  the  distresses  of  his 
country  an  opening  for  his  own  private  enrichment,  and  employed  his 
ducats,  not  in  the  assistance  of  the  national  wants,  but  in  speculating 
upon  houses  which  were  brought  to  market  at  a price  far  beneath  their 
real  value,  and  which,  upon  the  return  of  peace,  insured  the  purchaser 
a fourfold  profit.  ‘ What  matters  the  fall  of  Venice  to  me,  so  as  I fall 
not  together  with  her  ?’  was  his  selfish  and  sordid  reply  to  some  one 
who  expressed  surprise  at  the  transaction.” — Sketches  of  Venetian  His- 
tory. Murray,  1831. 

§ lx vm.  The  writer  of  the  unpretending  little  history  from 
which  the  last  quotation  is  taken  has  not  given  his  authority 
for  this  statement,  and  I could  not  find  it,  but  believed,  from 
the  general  accuracy  of  the  book,  that  some  authority  might 
exist  better  than  Daru’s.  .Under  these  circumstances,  wishing 
if  possible  to  ascertain  the  truth,  and  to  clear  the  character  of 
this  great  Doge  from  the  accusation,  if  it  proved  groundless, 
I wrote  to  the  Count  Carlo  Morosini,  his  descendant,  and  one 
of  the  few  remaining  representatives  of  the  ancient  noblesse 
of  Venice  ; one,  also,  by  whom  his  great  ancestral  name  is 


84 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


revered,  and  in  whom  it  is  exalted.  His  answer  appears  to 
me  altogether  conclusive  as  to  the  utter  fallacy  of  the  reports 
of  Daru  and  the  English  history.  I have  placed  his  letter  in 
the  close  of  this  volume  (Appendix  6),  in  order  that  the  reader 
may  himself  be  the  judge  upon  this  point ; and  I should  not 
have  alluded  to  Daru’s  report,  except  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
tradicting it,  but  that  it  still  appears  to  me  impossible  that 
any  modern  historian  should  have  gratuitously  invented  the 
whole  story,  and  that,  therefore,  there  must  have  been  a trace 
in  the  documents  which  Daru  himself  possessed,  of  some  scan- 
dal of  this  kind  raised  by  Morosini’s  enemies,  perhaps  at  the 
very  time  of  the  disputed  election  with  Carlo  Zeno.  The  oc- 
currence of  the  Virtues  upon  his  tomb,  for  the  first  time  in 
Venetian  monumental  work,  and  so  richly  and  conspicuously 
jdaced,  may  partly  have  been  in  public  contradiction  of  such 
a floating  rumor.  But  the  face  of  the  statue  is  a more  explicit 
contradiction  still  ; it  is  resolute,  thoughtful,  serene,  and  full 
of  beauty  ; and  we  must,  therefore,  for  once,  allow  the  some- 
what boastful  introduction  of  the  Virtues  to  have  been  per- 
fectly just : though  the  wdiole  tomb  is  most  notable,  as  fur- 
nishing not  only  the  exact  intermediate  condition  in  style 
between  the  pure  Gothic  and  its  final  Renaissance  corruption, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  the  exactly  intermediate  condition  of 
feeling  between  the  pure  calmness  of  early  Christianity,  and 
the  boastful  pomp  of  the  Renaissance  faithlessness  ; for  here 
we  have  still  the  religious  humility  remaining  in  the  mosaic 
of  the  canopy,  which  shows  the  Doge  kneeling  before  the 
cross,  while  yet  this  tendency  to  self-trust  is  shown  in  the  sur- 
rounding of  the  coffin  by  the  Virtues. 

§ lxix.  The  next  tomb  by  the  side  of  which  they  appear  is 
that  of  Jacopo  Cavalii,  in  the  same  chaj)el  of  St.  John  and  Paul 
which  contains  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Delfin.  It  is  peculiarly 
rich  in  religious  imagery,  adorned  by  boldly  cut  types  -of  the 
four  evangelists,  and  of  two  saints,  while,  on  projecting 
brackets  in  front  of  it,  stood  three  statues  of  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  now  lost,  but  drawn  in  Zanotto’s  work.  It  is  all  rich 
in  detail,  and  its  sculptor  has  been  proud  of  it,  thus  recording 
his  name  below  the  epitaph  : 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


85 


“ Qst  opera  dintalgio  e fatto  in  piera 
Unvenician  lafe  chanome  Polo, 

Nato  di  Jachomel  chataiapiera.” 


This  work  of  sculpture  is  done  in  stone  ; 
A Venetian  did  it,  named  Paul, 

Son  of  Jachomel  the  stone-cutter. 


Jacopo  Cavalli  died  in  1384.  He  was  a bold  and  active 
Veronese  soldier,  did  the  state  much  service,  was  therefore 
ennobled  by  it,  and  became  the  founder  of  the  house  of  the 
Cavalli ; but  I find  no  special  reason  for  the  images  of  the 
Virtues,  especially  that  of  Charity,  appearing  at  his  tomb  un- 
less it  be  this  : that  at  the  siege  of  Feltre,  in  the  war  aglinst 
Leopold  of  Austria,  he  refused  to  assault  the  city,  because  the 
senate  would  not  grant  his  soldiers  the  pillage  of  the  town 
The  feet  of  he  recumbent  figure,  which  is  in  full  armor  rest 

av°f  rd  ltS  head  °n  tW° lions ; and  these  animals  (neither 
7 W j)C  \ °.lm,  any  Paid  the  knight’s  bearings)  are  said  by 
Zanotto  to  be  intended  to  symbolize  his  bravery  and  fidelity 
]l°weveL  the  lions  are  meant  to  set  forth  courage,  it  is  a 
pity  they  should  have  been  represented  as  howling. 

of  Mcliael  ^ -PVr  f°r  aU  hlStant  beside  the  tomb 

of  Michael  Steno,  now  in  the  northern  aisle  of  St.  John  and 

Pan  , having  been  removed  there  from  the  destroyed  church 

o rhe  Sem  • first,  to  note  its  remarkable  return  to  the  early 

nplicity,  the  sarcophagus  being  decorated  only  with  two 

crosses  in  quatrefoils,  though  it  is  of  the  fifteenth  century 

pefiXrityofntl  413  U\thesecond  Place>  to  observe  the 

been  “ -Z  J the  ®?ltaPh’  wluch  eulogises  Steno  as  having 
amatoi  justitie,  pacis,  et  ubertatis,”  “a  lover  of  iustice 

S are  mSlty-’’  ^ ^ °f  the  virtues 

were  mn.f  t inos*  ac.count  of  in  public  men  are  those  which 
exam  ile  ii  U ° leir  country.  We  have  already  seen  one 
presTons  oc  *P  Simon  Dand<*>  ; and  similar  ex- 

C s bv7rTn‘tan%  m menti°ns  of  their  later 

Coraaro^' ‘^Era  ^enebaij’  -iters.  Thus  Sansovino  of  Marco 
’ Era  savio  huomo,  eloquente,  e amava  molto  la 


86 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


pace  e Y abbondanza  della  citta ; ” and  of  Tomaso  Mocenigo, 
uHuomo  oltre  modo  desideroso  della  pace.” 

Of  the  tomb  of  this  last-named  Doge  mention  has  before 
been  made.  Here,  as  in  Morosini’s,  the  images  of  the  Virtues 
have  no  ironical  power,  although  their  great  conspicuousness 
marks  the  increase  of  the  boastful  feeling  in  the  treatment  of 
monuments.  For  the  rest,  this  tomb  is  the  last  in  Venice 
which  can  be  considered  as  belonging  to  the  Gothic  period. 
Its  mouldings  are  already  rudely  classical,  and  it  has  meaning- 
less figures  in  Eoman  armor  at  the  angles ; but  its  tabernacle 
above  is  still  Gothic,  and  the  recumbent  figure  is  very  beauti- 
ful. It  was  carved  by  two  Florentine  sculptors  in  1423. 

§ lxxi.  Tomaso  Mocenigo  wras  succeeded  by  the  renowned 
Doge,  Francesco  Foscari,  under  whom,  it  will  be  remembered, 
the  last  additions  were  made  to  the  Gothic  Ducal  Palace  ; ad- 
ditions which,  in  form  only,  not  in  spirit,  corresponded  to  the 
older  portions  ; since,  during  his  reign,  the  transition  took 
place  which  permits  us  no  longer  to  consider  the  Venetian 
architecture  as  Gothic  at  all.  He  died  in  1457,  and  his  tomb 
is  the  first  important  example  of  Renaissance  art. 

Not,  however,  a good  characteristic  example.  It  is  remark- 
able chiefly  as  introducing  all  the  faults  of  the  Renaissance  at 
an  early  period,  when  its  merits,  such  as  they  are,  were  yet 
undeveloped.  Its  claim  to  be  rated  as  a classical  composition 
is  altogether  destroyed  by  the  remnants  of  Gothic  feeling 
which  cling  to  it  here  and  there  in  their  last  forms  of  degra- 
dation ; and  of  which,  now  that  we  find  them  thus  corrupted, 
the  sooner  we  are  rid  the  better.  Thus  the  sarcophagus  is 
supported  by  a species  of  trefoil  arches  ; the  bases  of  the 
shafts  have  still  their  spurs  ; and  the  wdiole  tomb  is  covered 
by  a pediment,  with  crockets  and  a pinnacle.  We  shall  find 
that  the  perfect  Renaissance  is  at  least  pure  in  its  insipidity, 
and  subtle  in  its  vice  ; but  this  monument  is  remarkable  as 
showing  the  refuse  of  one  style  encumbering  the  embryo  of 
another,  and  all  principles  of  life  entangled  either  in  the  swad- 
dling clothes  or  the  shroud. 

§ lxxii.  With  respect  to  our  present  purpose,  however,  it 
is  a monument  of  enormous  importance.  We  have  to  trace, 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


87 


be  it  remembered,  the  pride  of  state  in  its  gradual  intrusion 
upon  the  sepulchre  ; and  the  consequent  and  correlative  van- 
ishing of  the  expressions  of  religious  feeling  and  heavenly 
hope,  together  with  the  more  and  more  arrogant  setting  forth 
of  the  virtues  of  the  dead.  Now  this  tomb  is  the  largest  and 
most  costly  we  have  yet  seen  ; but  its  means  of  religious  ex- 
pression are  limited  to  a single  statue  of  Christ,  small  and 
used  merely  as  a pinnacle  at  the  top.  The  rest  of  the  com- 
position is  as  curious  as  it  is  vulgar.  The  conceit,  so  often 
noticed  as  having  been  borrowed  from  the  Pisan  school  of 
angels  withdrawing  the  curtains  of  the  couch  to  look  down 
upon  the  dead,  was  brought  forward  with  increasing  promi- 
nence by  every  succeeding  sculptor  ; but,  as  we  drawr  nearer 
to  the  Renaissance  period,  we  find  that  the  angels  become  of 
less  importance,  and  the  curtains  of  more.  With  the  Pisans, 
the  curtains  are  introduced  as  a motive  for  the  angels  ; with 
the  Renaissance  sculptors,  the  angels  are  introduced  merely 
as  a motive  for  the  curtains,  which  become  every  day  more 
liuge  and  elaborate.  In  the  monument  of  Mocenigo,  they 
have  already  expanded  into  a tent,  with  a pole  in  the  centre 
of  it  : and  in  that  of  Foscari,  for  the  first  time,  the  angels  are 
absent  altogether  ; while  the  curtains  are  arranged  in  the  form 
of  an  enormous  French  tent-bed,  and  are  sustained  at  the 
flanks  by  two  diminutive  figures  in  Roman  armor  ; substituted 
for  the  angels,  merely  that  the  sculptor  might  show  his  knowl- 
edge of  classical  costume.  And  now  observe  how  often  a fault 
in  feeling  induces  also  a fault  in  style.  In  the  old  tombs  the 
angels  used  to  stand  on  or  by  the  side  of  the  sarcophagus ; 
but  their  places  are  here  to  be  occupied  by  the  Virtues,  and 
therefore,  to  sustain  the  diminutive  Roman  figures  at  the 
necessar}^  height,  each  has  a whole  Corinthian  pillar  to  him- 
self, a pillar  whose  shaft  is  eleven  feet  high,  and  some  three 
or  four  feet  round  : and  because  this  was  not  high  enough,  it 
is  put  on  a pedestal  four  feet  and  a half  high  ; and  has  a 
spurred  base  besides  of  its  own,  a tall  capital,  then  a huge 
bracket  above  the  capital,  and  then  another  pedestal  above 
the  bracket,  and  on  the  top  of  all  the  diminutive  figure  who 
has  charge  of  the  curtains. 


88 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lxxiii.  Under  the  canopy,  thus  arranged,  is  placed  the 
sarcophagus  with  its  recumbent  figure.  The  statues  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  saints  have  disappeared  from  it.  In  their 
stead,  its  panels  are  filled  with  half-length  figures  of  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Charity ; while  Temperance  and  Fortitude  are 
at  the  Doge’s  feet,  Justice  and  Prudence  at  his  head,  figures 
now  the  size  of  life,  yet  nevertheless  recognizable  only  by 
their  attributes : for,  except  that  Hope  raises  her  eyes,  there 
is  no  difference  in  the  character  or  expression  of  any  of  their 
faces, — they  are  nothing  more  than  handsome  Venetian  women, 
in  rather  full  and  courtly  dresses,  and  tolerably  well  thrown 
into  postures  for  effect  from  below.  Fortitude  could  not  of 
course  be  placed  in  a graceful  one  without  some  sacrifice  of 
her  character,  but  that  was  of  no  consequence  in  the  e}Tes  of 
the  sculptors  of  this  period,  so  she  leans  back  languidly,  and 
nearly  overthrows  her  own  column ; while  Temperance,  and 
Justice  opposite  to  her,  as  neither  the  left  hand  of  the  one 
nor  the  right  hand  of  the  other  could  be  seen  from  below, 
have  been  left  with  one  hand  each . 

§ lxxiv.  Still  these  figures,  coarse  and  feelingless  as  they 
are,  have  been  worked  with  care,  because  the  principal  effect 
of  the  tomb  depends  on  them.  But  the  effigy  of  the  Doge, 
of  which  nothing  but  the  side  is  visible,  has  been  utterly  neg- 
lected ; and  the  ingenuity  of  the  sculptor  is  not  so  great,  at 
the  best,  as  that  he  can  afford  to  be  slovenly.  There  is,  indeed, 
nothing  in  the  history  of  Foscari  which  would  lead  us  to  ex- 
pect anything  particularly  noble  in  his  face  ; but  I trust, 
nevertheless,  it  has  been  misrepresented  by  this  despicable 
carver  ; for  no  words  are  strong  enough  to  express  the  base- 
ness of  the  portraiture.  A huge,  gross,  bony  clown’s  face, 
with  the  peculiar  sodden  and  sensual  cunning  in  it  which  is 
seen  so  often  in  the  countenances  of  the  worst  Bomanist 
priest ; a face  part  of  iron  and  part  of  clay,  with  the  immo- 
bility of  the  one,  and  the  foulness  of  the  other,  double  chinned, 
blunt-mouthed,  bony-cheeked,  with  its  brows  drawn  down 
into  meagre  lines  and  wrinkles  over  the  eyelids  ; the  face  of  a 
man  incapable  either  of  joy  or  sorrow,  unless  such  as  may  be 
caused  by  the  indulgence  of  passion,  or  the  mortification  of 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


89 


pride.  Even  had  he  been  such  a one,  a noble  workman  would 
not  have  written  it  so  legibly  on  his  tomb  ; and  I believe  it  to 
be  the  image  of  the  carver’s  own  mind  that  is  there  hewn  in 
the  marble,  not  that  of  the  Doge  Foscari.  For  the  same  mind 
is  visible  enough  throughout,  the  traces  of  it  mingled  with 
those  of  the  evil  taste  of  the  whole  time  and  people.  There 
is  not  anything  so  small  but  it  is  shown  in  some  portion  of  its 
treatment ; for  instance,  in  the  placing  of  the  shields  at  the 
back  of  the  great  curtain.  In  earlier  times,  the  shield,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  represented  as  merely  suspended  against  the 
tomb  by  a thong,  or  if  sustained  in  any  other  manner,  still  its 
form  was  simple  and  undisguised.  Men  in  those  days  used 
their  shields  in  war,  and  therefore  there  was  no  need  to  add  dig- 
nity to  their  form  by  external  ornament.  That  which,  through 
day  after  day  of  mortal  danger,  had  borne  back  from  them  the 
waves  of  battle,  could  neither  be  degraded  by  simplicity,  nor 
exalted  by  decoration.  By  its  rude  leathern  thong  it  seemed  to 
be  fastened  to  their  tombs,  and  the  shield  of  the  mighty  was  not 
cast  away,  though  capable  of  defending  its  master  no  more. 

§ lxxv.  It  was  otherwise  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  cen- 
turies. The  changed  system  of  warfare  was  rapidly  doing 
away  with  the  practical  service  of  the  shield  ; and  the  chiefs 
who  directed  the  battle  from  a distance,  or  who  passed  the 
greater  part  of  their  lives  in  the  council-chamber,  soon  came 
to  regard  the  shield  as  nothing  more  than  a field  for  their 
armorial  bearings.  It  then  became  a principal  object  of  their 
Pride  of  State  to  increase  the  conspicuousness  of  these  marks 
of  family  distinction  by  surrounding  them  with  various  and 
fantastic  ornament,  generally  scroll  or  flower  work,  which  of 
course  deprived  the  shield  of  all  appearance  of  being  intended 
for  a soldier’s  use.  Thus  the  shield  of  the  Foscari  is  intro- 
duced in  two  ways.  On  the  sarcophagus,  the  bearings  are 
three  times  repeated,  enclosed  in  circular  disks,  which  are 
sustained  each  by  a couple  of  naked  infants.  Above  the  can- 
opy, two  shields  of  the  usual  form  are  set  in  the  centre  of 
circles  filled  by  a radiating  ornament  of  shell  flutings,  which 
give  them  the  effect  of  ventilators  ; and  their  circumference  is 
farther  adorned  by  gilt  rays,  undulating  to  represent  a glory. 


90 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lxxyi.  We  now  approach  that  period  of  the  early  Renais- 
sance which  was  noticed  in  the  preceding  chapter  as  being  at 
first  a very  visible  improvement  on  the  corrupted  Gothic.  The 
tombs  executed  during  the  period  of  the  Byzantine  Renais- 
sance exhibit,  in  the  first  place,  a consummate  skill  in  handling 
the  chisel,  perfect  science  of  drawing  and  anatomy,  high  ap- 
preciation of  good  classical  models,  and  a grace  of  composi- 
tion and  delicacy  of  ornament  derived,  I believe,  principally 
from  the  great  Florentine  sculptors.  But,  together  with  this 
science,  they  exhibit  also,  for  a short  time,  some  return  to  the 
early  religious  feeling,  forming  a school  of  sculpture  which 
corresponds  to  that  of  the  school  of  the  Bellini  in  painting  ; 
and  the  only  wonder  is  that  there  should  not  have  been  more 
workmen  in  the  fifteenth  century  doing  in  marble  what  Peru- 
gino,  Francia,  and  Bellini  did  on  canvas.  There  are,  indeed, 
some  few,  as  I have  just  said,  in  whom  the  good  and  pure 
temper  shows  itself  : but  the  sculptor  was  necessarily  led 
sooner  than  the  painter  to  an  exclusive  study  of  classical 
models,  utterly  adverse  to  the  Christian  imagination  ; and  he 
was  also  deprived  of  the  great  purifying  and  sacred  element 
of  color,  besides  having  much  more  of  merely  mechanical  and 
therefore  degrading  labor  to  go  through  in  the  realization  of 
his  thought.  Hence  I do  not  know  any  example  in  sculpture 
at  this  period,  at  least  in  Venice,  which  has  not  conspicuous 
faults  (not  faults  of  imperfection,  as  in  early  sculpture,  but  of 
purpose  and  sentiment),  staining  such  beauties  as  it  may  pos- 
sess ; and  the  whole  school  soon  falls  away,  and  merges  into 
vain  pomp  and  meagre  metaphor. 

§ lxxvii.  The  most  celebrated  monument  of  this  period  is 
that  to  the  Doge  Andrea  Vendramin,  in  the  Church  of  St. 
John  and  Paul,  sculptured  about  1480,  and  before  alluded  to 
in  the  first  chapter  of  the  first  volume.  It  has  attracted  pub- 
lic admiration,  partly  by  its  costliness,  partly  by  the  delicacy 
and  precision  of  its  chiselling  ; being  otherwise  a very  base 
and  unworthy  example  of  the  school,  and  showing  neither  in- 
vention nor  feeling.  It  has  the  Virtues,  as  usual,  dressed  like 
heathen  goddesses,  and  totally  devoid  of  expression,  though 
graceful  and  well  studied  merely  as  female  figures.  The  rest 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


91 


of  its  sculpture  is  all  of  the  same  kind  ; perfect  in  workman- 
ship, and  devoid  of  thought.  Its  dragons  are  covered  with 
marvellous  scales,  but  have  no  terror  nor  sting  in  them  • its 
birds  are  perfect  in  plumage,  but  have  no  song  in  them  • 

Ihem  7 °f  limb’  bUt  W 110  childis^ess  in 

§ lxxviii.  Of  far  other  workmanship  are  the  tombs  of  Pietro 
and  Giovanni  Mocemgo,  in  St.  John  and  Paul,  and  of  Pietro 
Bernardo  m the  Fran;  in  all  which  the  details  are  as  full  of 
exquisite  fancy  as  they  are  perfect  in  execution  ; and  in  the 
two  former  and  several  others  of  similar  feeling,  the  old  re 
hgious  symbols  return  ; the  Madonna  is  again  seen  enthroned 
under  the  canopy,  and  the  sarcophagus  is  decorated  with 
legends  of  the  saints.  But  the  fatal  errors  of  sentiment  are 
nevertheless,  always  traceable.  In  the  first  place,  the  sculptor 
is  always  seen  to  be  intent  upon  the  exhibition  of  his  skill 
more  than  on  producing  any  effect  on  the  spectator’s  mind  • 
elaborate  backgrounds  of  landscape,  with  tricks  of  perspective’ 
imitations  of  trees,  clouds,  and  water,  and  various  other  un- 
cessaiy  adjuncts,  merely  to  show  how  marble  could  be  sub- 
ued  ; together  with  useless  under-cutting,  and  over-finish  in 

lidmexcit  IT’  COntillUf%  exhlbitil)S  the  ®e  cold  vanity 
and  unexcited  precision  of  mechanism.  In  the  second  place 

the  figures  have  all  the  peculiar  tendency  to  posture-makim?’ 

which,  exhibiting  itself  first  painfully  in  Perugino  ranidfv 

destroyed  the  veracity  of  composition  in  all  art.  °By  posture- 

making  I mean,  in  general,  that  action  of  figures  which  results 

from  tte  painter’s  considering,  in  the  firrf  place,  not  hot 

under  the  circumstances,  they  would  actually  have  walked  or 

oo  or  ooked,  but  how  they  may  most  gracefully  and  har 

stof' in  ti“  i““ds 

, ke  everything  else,  becomes  noble,  even  when  over- 
flny  other  "tie  Mlcbf  Angelo,  who  was,  perhaps,  more  than 
this  halS  S the  miScbifef;  but>  "Uh  inferior  men, 

hfl«  b f f>r!)paSlnR'  attitudes  ends  necessarily  in  utter 

, Gl0tt°  Was’  PerbaPs)  of  all  painters 
he  most  free  from  the  infection  of  the  poison,  alwavs  conceiw 

8 a“  mCldent  natura%>  ahd  drawing  it  unaffectedly  ; and 


92 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


the  absence  of  posture-making  in  the  works  of  the  Pre-Ra- 
phaelites, as  opposed  to  the  Attitudinarianism  of  the  modern 
school,  has  been  both  one  of  their  principal  virtues,  and  of 
the  principal  causes  of  outcry  against  them. 

§ lxxix.  But  the  most  significant  change  in  the  treatment 
of  these  tombs,  with  respect  to  our  immediate  object,  is  in  the 
form  of  the  sarcophagus.  It  was  above  noted,  that,  exactly 
in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  the  pride  of  life  expressed  in 
any  monument,  would  be  also  the  fear  of  death ; and  there- 
fore, as  these  tombs  increase  in  splendor,  in  size,  and  beauty 
of  workmanship,  we  perceive  a gradual  desire  to  take  away 
from  the  definite  character  of  the  sarcophagus . In  the  earliest 
times,  as  we  have  seen,  it  was  a gloomy  mass  of  stone  ; grad- 
ually it  became  charged  with  religious  sculpture  ; but  never 
with  the  slightest  desire  to  disguise  its  form,  until  towards 
the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  then  becomes  enriched 
with  flower-work  and  hidden  by  the  Virtues  ; and,  finally,  los- 
ing its  four-square  form,  it  is  modelled  on  graceful  types  of 
ancient  vases,  made  as  little  like  a coffin  as  possible,  and  re- 
fined awa}r  in  various  elegancies,  till  it  becomes,  at  last,  a 
mere  pedestal  or  stage  for.  the  portrait  statue.  This  statue, 
in  the  meantime,  has  been  gradually  coming  back  to  life, 
through  a curious  series  of  transitions.  The  Vendramin  mon- 
ument is  one  of  the  last  which  shows,  or  pretends  to  show, 
the  recumbent  figure  laid  in  death.  A few  years  later,  this 
idea  became  disagreeable  to  polite  minds  ; and,  lo ! the  figures 
which  before  had  been  laid  at  rest  upon  the  tomb  pillow, 
raised  themselves  on  their  elbows,  and  began  to  look  round 
them.  The  soul  of  the  sixteenth  century  dared  not  contem- 
plate its  body  in  death. 

§ lxxx.  The  reader  cannot  but  remember  many  instances 
of  this  form  of  monument,  England  being  peculiarly  rich  in 
examples  of  them  ; although,  with  her,  tomb  sculpture,  after 
the  fourteenth  century,  is  altogether  imitative,  and  in  no  de- 
gree indicative  of  the  temper  of  the  people.  It  was  from  Italj 
that  the  authority  for  the  change  wTas  derived  ; and  in  Italy 
only,  therefore,  that  it  is  truly  correspondent  to  the  change  in 
the  national  mind.  There  are  many  monuments  in  Venice  of 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE . 


93 


this  semi-animate  type,  most  of  them  carefully  sculptured,  and 
some  very  admirable  as  portraits,  and  for  the  casting  of  the 
drapery,  especially  those  in  the  Church  of  San  Salvador  ; but 
I shall  only  direct  the  reader  to  one,  that  of  Jacopo  Pesaro, 
Bishop  of  Paphos,  in  the  Church  of  the  Frari ; notable  not 
only  as  a very  skilful  piece  of  sculpture,  but  for  the  epitaph, 
singularly  characteristic  of  the  period,  and  confirmatory  of  all 
that  I have  alleged  against  it : 

“ James  Pesaro,  Bishop  of  Paphos,  who  conquered  the  Turks  in  war, 
himself  in  peace,  transported  from  a noble  family  among  the  Vene- 
tians to  a nobler  among  the  angels,  laid  here,  expects  the  noblest 
crown,  which  the  just  Judge  shall  give  to  him  in  that  day.  He 
lived  the  years  of  Plato.  He  died 24th  March,  1547.* 

The  mingled  classicism  and  carnal  pride  of  this  epitaph 
surely  need  no  comment.  The  crown  is  expected  as  a right 
from  the  justice  of  the  judge,  and  the  nobility  of  the  Venetian 
family  is  only  a little  lower  than  that  of  the  angels.  The 
quaint  childishness  of  the  “Vixit  annos  Platonicos  ” is  also 
very  notable. 

§ lxxxi.  The  statue,  however,  did  not  long  remain  in  this 
partially  recumbent  attitude.  Even  the  expression  of  peace 
became  painful  to  the  frivolous  and  thoughtless  Italians,  and 
they  required  the  portraiture  to  be  rendered  in  a manner  that 
should  induce  no  memory  of  death.  The  statue  rose  up,  and 
presented  itself  in  front  of  the  tomb,  like  an  actor  upon  a stage, 
surrounded  now  not  merely,  or  not  at  all,  by  the  Virtues,  but 
by  allegorical  figures  of  Fame  and  Victory,  by  genii  and 
muses,  by  personifications  of  humbled  kingdoms  and  adoring 
nations,  and  by  every  circumstance  of  pomp,  and  symbol  of 
adulation,  that  flattery  could  suggest,  or  insolence  could 
claim. 

§ lxxxii.  As  of  the  intermediate  monumental  type,  so  also 
of  this,  the  last  and  most  gross,  there  are  unfortunately  many 

* “ Jacobus  Pisaurius  Paplii  Episcopus  qui  Turcos  bello,  se  ipsum  pace 
vincebat,  ex  nobili  inter  Venetas,  ad  nobiliorem  inter  Angelos  famiiiam 
delatus,  nobilissimam  in  ilia  die  Coronam  justo  Judice  reddente,  liic  situs 
expectat  Vixit  annos  Platonicos.  Obijt  MDXLVII.  XX.  Kal. 'Aprilis.” 


94 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


examples  in  our  own  country  ; but  the  most  wonderful,  by 
far,  are  still  at  Venice.  I shall,  however,  particularize  only 
two  ; the  first,  that  of  the  Doge  John  Pesaro,  in  the  Frari. 
It  is  to  be  observed  that  we  have  jiassed  over  a considerable 
interval  of  time  ; we  are  now  in  the  latter  half  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  ; the  progress  of  corruption  has  in  the  mean- 
time been  incessant,  and  sculpture  has  here  lost  its  taste  and 
learning  as  well  as  its  feeling.  The  monument  is  a huge  accu- 
mulation of  theatrical  scenery  in  marble  : four  colossal  negro 
caryatides,  grinning  and  horrible,  with  faces  of  black  marble 
and  white  eyes,  sustain  the  first  story  of  it  ; above  this,  two 
monsters,  long-necked,  half  dog  and  half  dragon,  sustain  an 
ornamental  sarcophagus,  on  the  top  of  which  the  full-length 
statue  of  the  Doge  in  robes  of  state  stands  forward  with  its 
arms  expanded,  like  an  actor  courting  applause,  under  a huge 
canopy  of  metal,  like  the  roof  of  a bed,  painted  crimson  and 
gold  ; pn  each  side  of  him  are  sitting  figures  of  genii,  and 
unintelligible  personifications  gesticulating  in  Roman  armor  ; 
below,  between  the  negro  caryatides,  are  two  ghastly  figures 
in  bronze,  half  corpse,  half  skeleton,  carrying  tablets  on  which 
is  written  the  eulogium  : but  in  large  letters  graven  in  gold, 
the  following  words  are  the  first  and  last  that  strike  the  eye  ; 
the  first  two  phrases,  one  on  each  side,  on  tablets  in  the  lower 
story,  the  last  under  the  portrait  statue  above  : 

Vixit  annos  LXX.  Devixit  anno  MDCLIX. 

“ Hie  bevixit  anno  MDCLXIX.” 

We  have  here,  at  last,  the  horrible  images  of  death  in  violent 
contrast  with  the  defiant  monument,  which  pretends  to  bring 
the  resurrection  down  to  earth,  “ Hie  re  vixit ; ” and  it  seems 
impossible  for  false  taste  and  base  feeling  to  sink  lower.  Yet 
even  this  monument  is  surpassed  by  one  in  St.  John  and 
Paul. 

§ lxxxiii.  But  before  we  pass  to  this,  the  last  with  which  I 
shall  burden  the  reader’s  attention,  let  us  for  a moment,  and 
that  we  may  feel  the  contrast  more  forcibly,  return  to  a tomb 
of  the  early  times. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


95 


In  a dark  niche  in  the  outer  wall  of  the  outer  corridor  of 
St.  Mark’s — not  even  in  the  church,  observe,  but  in  the 
atrium  or  porch  of  it,  and  on  the  north  side  of  the  church, — 
is  a solid  sarcophagus  of  white  marble,  raised  only  about  two 
feet  from  the  ground  on  four  stunted  square  pillars.  Its  lid 
is  a mere  slab  of  stone  ; on  its  extremities  are  sculptured  two 
crosses  ; in  front  of  it  are  two  rows  of  rude  figures,  the  upper- 
most representing  Christ  with  the  Apostles  : the  lower  row  is 
of  six  figures  only,  alternately  male  and  female,  holding  up 
their  hands  in  the  usual  attitude  of  benediction  ; the  sixth  is 
smaller  than  the  rest,  and  the  midmost  of  the  other  five  has  a 
glory  round  its  head.  I cannot  tell  the  meaning  of  these 
figures,  but  between  them  are  suspended  censers  attached  to 
crosses ; a most  beautiful  symbolic  expression  of  Christ’s 
mediatorial  function.  The  whole  is  surrounded  by  a rude 
wreath  of  vine  leaves,  proceeding  out  of  the  foot  of  a cross. 

On  the  bar  of  marble  which  separates  the  two  rows  of  fig- 
ures are  inscribed  these  words  : 

u Here  lies  the  Lord  Marin  Morosini,  Duke.” 

It  is  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Marino  Morosini,  who  reigned 
from  1249  to  1252. 

§ lxxxiv.  From  before  this  rude  and  solemn  sepulchre  let 
us  pass  to  the  southern  aisle  of  the  church  of  St.  John  and 
Paul ; and  there,  towering  from  the  pavement  to  the  vaulting 
of  the  church,  behold  a mass  of  marble,  sixty  or  seventy  feet 
in  height,  of  mingled  yellow  and  white,  the  yellow  carved  into 
the  form  of  an  enormous  curtain,  with  ropes,  fringes,  and 
tassels,  sustained  by  cherubs  ; in  front  of  which,  in  the  now 
usual  stage  attitudes,  advance  the  statues  of  the  Doge  Bertuc- 
cio  Valier,  his  son  the  Doge  Silvester  Falier,  and  his  son’s 
wife,  Elizabeth.  The  statues  of  the  Doges,  though  mean  and 
Polonius-like,  are  partly  redeemed  by  the  Ducal  robes  ; but 
that  of  the  Dogaressa  is  a consummation  of  grossness,  vanity, 
and  ugliness, — the  figure  of  a large  and  wrinkled  woman,  with 
elaborate  curls  in  stiff  projection  round  her  face,  covered  from 
her  shoulders  to  her  feet  with  ruffs,  furs,  lace,  jewels,  and  em- 
broidery. Beneath  and  around  are  scattered  Virtues,  Vio 


96 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


tories,  Fames,  genii, — the  entire  company  of  the  monumental 
stage  assembled,  as  before  a drop  scene, — executed  by  various 
sculptors,  and  deserving  attentive  study  as  exhibiting  every 
condition  of  false  taste  and  feeble  conception.  The  Victory  in 
the  centre  is  peculiarly  interesting  ; the  lion  by  which  she  is 
accompanied,  springing  on  a dragon,  has  been  intended  to 
look  terrible,  but  the  incapable  sculptor  could  not  conceive 
any  form  of  dreadfulness,  could  not  even  make  the  lion  look 
angry.  It  looks  only  lachrymose  ; and  its  lifted  forepaws, 
there  being  no  spring  nor  motion  in  its  body,  give  it  the 
appearance  of  a dog  begging.  The  inscriptions  under  the 
two  principal  statues  are  as  follows  : 

“ Bertucius  Valier,  Duke, 

Great  in  wisdom  and  eloquence, 

Greater  in  his  Hellespontic  victory, 

Greatest  in  the  Prince  his  son. 

Died  in  the  year  1658.” 

‘ ‘ Elisabeth  Quirina, 

The  wife  of  Silvester, 

Distinguished  by  Roman  virtue, 

By  Venetian  piety, 

And  by  the  Ducal  crown, 

Died  1708.” 

The  writers  of  this  age  were  generally  anxious  to  make  the 
world  aware  that  they  understood  the  degrees  of  comparison, 
and  a large  number  of  epitaphs  are  principally  constructed 
with  this  object  (compare,  in  the  Latin,  that  of  the  Bishop  of 
Paphos,  given  above)  : but  the  latter  of  these  epitaphs  is  also 
interesting  from  its  mention,  in  an  age  now  altogether  given 
up  to  the  pursuit  of  worldly  honor,  of  that  “ Venetian  piety  ” 
which  once  truly  distinguished  the  city  from  all  others ; and 
of  which  some  form  and  shadow,  remaining  still,  served  to 
point  an  epitaph,  and  to  feed  more  cunningly  and  speciously 
the  pride  which  could  not  be  satiated  with  the  sumptuousness 
of  the  sepulchre. 

§ lxxxy.  Thus  far,  then,  of  the  second  element  of  the  Be- 
naissance  spirit,  the  Pride  of  State  ; nor  need  we  go  farther  te 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


97 


learn  the  reason  of  tlie  fall  of  Venice.  She  was  already  likened 
in  her  thoughts,  and  was  therefore  to  be  likened  in  her  ruin, 
to  the  Virgin  of  Babylon.  The  Pride  of  State  and  the  Pride 
of  Knowledge  were  no  new  passions  : the  sentence  against 
them  had  gone  forth  from  everlasting.  “ Thou  saidst,  I shall 
be  a lady  for  ever  ; so  that  thou  didst  not  lay  these  things  to 
thine  heart.  . . Thy  wisdom  and  thy  knowledge , it  hath 

perverted  thee  ; and  thou  hast  said  in  thine  heart,  I am,  and 
none  else  beside  me.  Therefore  shall  evil  come  upon  thee 
. . . ; thy  merchants  from  thy  youth,  they  shall  wander 

every  one  to  his  quarter  ; none  shall  save  thee.”  * 

§ lxxxvi.  III.  Pride  of  System.  I might  have  illustrated 
these  evil  principles  from  a thousand  other  sources,  but  I have 
not  time  to  pursue  the  subject  farther,  and  must  pass  to  the 
third  element  above  named,  the  Pride  of  System.  It  need  not 
detain  us  so  long  as  either  of  the  others,  for  it  is  at  once 
more  palpable  and  less  dangerous.  The  manner  in  which  the 
pride  of  the  fifteenth  century  corrupted  the  sources  of  knowl- 
edge, and  diminished  the  majesty,  while  it  multiplied  the 
trappings,  of  state,  is  in  general  little  observed  ; but  the 
reader  is  probably  already  well  and  sufficiently  aware  of  the 
curious  tendency  to  formulization  and  system  which,  under 
the  name  of  philosophy,  encumbered  the  minds  of  the  Re- 
naissance schoolmen.  As  it  was  above  stated,  grammar  be- 
came the  first  of  sciences ; and  whatever  subject  had  to  be 
treated,  the  first  aim  of  the  philosopher  was  to  subject  its 
principles  to  a code  of  laws,  in  the  observation  of  which  the 
merit  of  the  speaker,  thinker,  or  worker,  in  or  on  that  subject, 
was  thereafter  to  consist ; so  that  the  whole  mind  of  the  world 
was  occupied  by  the  exclusive  study  of  Restraints.  The  sound 
of  the  forging  of  fetters  was  heard  from  sea  to  sea.  The  doc- 
tors of  all  the  arts  and  sciences  set  themselves  daily  to  the 
invention  of  new  varieties  of  cages  and  manacles  ; they  them- 
selves wore,  instead  of  gowns,  a chain  mail,  whose  purpose 
was  not  so  much  to  avert  the  weapon  of  the  adversary  as  to 
restrain  the  motions  of  the  wearer  ; and  all  the  acts,  thoughts, 
and  workings  of  mankind, — poetry,  painting,  architecture, 
* Isaiah  xlvii.  7,  10,  11,  15. 


Vol.  III. — 7 


98 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


and  philosophy, — were  reduced  by  them  merely  to  so  many 
different  forms  of  fetter-dance. 

§ lxxxvii.  Now,  I am  very  sure  that  no  reader  who  has 
given  any  attention  to  the  former  portions  of  this  work,  or 
the  tendency  of  what  else  I have  written,  more  especially  the 
last  chapter  of  the  “Seven  Lamps,”  will  suppose  me  to  under- 
rate the  importance,  or  dispute  the  authority,  of  law.  It  has 
been  necessary  for  me  to  allege  these  again  and  again,  nor 
can  they  ever  be  too  often  or  too  energetically  alleged,  against 
the  vast  masses  of  men  who  now  disturb  or  retard  the  advance 
of  civilization  ; heady  and  high-minded,  despisers  of  disci- 
pline, and  refusers  of  correction.  But  law,  so  far  as  it  can  be 
reduced  to  form  and  system,  and  is  not  written  upon  the 
heart, — as  it  is,  in  a Divine  loyalty,  upon  the  hearts  of  the 
great  hierarchies  who  serve  and  wait  about  the  throne  of  the 
Eternal  Lawgiver, — this  lower  and  formally  expressible  law 
has,  I say,  two  objects.  It  is  either  for  the  definition  and  re- 
straint of  sin,  or  the  guidance  of  simplicity  ; it  either  explains, 
forbids,  and  punishes  wickedness,  or  it  guides  the  movements 
and  actions  both  of  lifeless  things  and  of  the  more  simple  and 
untaught  among  responsible  agents.  And  so  long,  therefore, 
as  sin  and  foolishness  are  in  the  world,  so  long  it  will  be  nec- 
essary for  men  to  submit  themselves  painfully  to  this  lower 
law,  in  proportion  to  their  need  of  being  corrected,  and  to  the 
degree  of  childishness  or  simplicity  by  which  they  approach 
more  nearly  to  the  condition  of  the  unthinking  and  inanimate 
things  which  are  governed  by  law  altogether  ; yet  yielding, 
in  the  manner  of  their  submission  to  it,  a singular  lesson  to 
the  pride  of  man, — being  obedient  more  perfectly  in  propor- 
tion to  their  greatness.*  But,  so  far  as  men  become  good  and 
wise,  and  rise  above  the  state  of  children,  so  far  they  become 
emancipated  from  this  written  law,  and  invested  with  the  per- 
fect freedom  which  consists  in  the  fulness  and  joyfulness  of 
compliance  with  a higher  and  unwritten  law  ; a law  so  univer- 
sal, so  subtle,  so  glorious,  that  nothing  but  the  heart  can  keep 
it. 

§ lxxxviii.  Now  pride  opposes  itself  to  the  observance  of 
* Compare  “ Seven  Lamps,”  chap.  vii.  § 3. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


99 


this  Divine  law  in  two  opposite  ways  : either  by  brute  resist- 
ance, which  is  the  way  of  the  rabble  and  its  leaders,  denying 
or  defying  law  altogether  ; or  by  formal  compliance,  which  is 
the  way  of  the  Pharisee,  exalting  himself  while  he  pretends  to 
obedience,  and  making  void  the  infinite  and  spiritual  com- 
mandment by  the  finite  and  lettered  commandment.  And  it 
is  easy  to  know  which  law  we  are  obeying  : for  any  law  'which 
we  magnify  and  keep  through  pride,  is  always  the  law  of  the 
letter  ; but  that  which  we  love  and  keep  through  humility,  is 
the  law  of  the  Spirit : And  the  letter  killeth,  but  the  Spirit 
giveth  life. 

§ lxxxix.  In  the  appliance  of  this  universal  principle  to 
what  we  have  at  present  in  hand,  it  is  to  be  noted,  that  all 
written  or  writable  law  respecting  the  arts  is  for  the  childish 
and  ignorant : that  in  the  beginning  of  teaching,  it  is  possible 
to  say  that  this  or  that  must  or  must  not  be  done  ; and  laws 
of  color  and  shade  may  be  taught,  as  laws  of  harmony  are  to 
the  young  scholar  in  music.  But  the  moment  a man  begins 
to  be  anything  deserving  the  name  of  an  artist,  all  this  teach- 
able law  has  become  a matter  of  course  with  him  ; and  if, 
thenceforth,  he  boast  himself  anywise  in  the  law,  or  pretend 
that  he  lives  and  works  by  it,  it  is  a sure  sign  that  he  is  merely 
tithing  cummin,  and  that  there  is  no  true  art  nor  religion  in 
him.  For  the  true  artist  has  that  inspiration  in  him  which  is 
above  all  law,  or  rather,  which  is  continually  working  out  such 
magnificent  and  perfect  obedience  to  supreme  law,  as  can  in 
no  wise  be  rendered  by  line  and  rule.  There  are  more  laws 
perceived  and  fulfilled  in  the  single  stroke  of  a great  work- 
man, than  could  be  written  in  a volume.  His  science  is  inex- 
pressibly subtle,  directly  taught  him  by  his  Maker,  not  in  any 
wise  communicable  or  imitable.*  Neither  can  any  written  or 
definitely  observable  laws  enable  us  to  do  any  great  thing. 
It  is  possible,  by  measuring  and  administering  quantities  of 
color,  to  paint  a room  wall  so  that  it  shall  not  hurt  the  eye  ; 
but  there  are  no  laws  by  observing  which  we  can  become 
Titians.  It  is  possible  so  to  measure  and  administer  syllables, 

* See  the  farther  remarks  on  Inspiration,  in  the  fourth  chapter. 


100 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


as  to  construct  harmonious  verse  ; but  there  are  no  laws  by 
which  we  can  write  Iliads.  Out  of  the  poem  or  the  picture, 
once  produced,  men  may  elicit  laws  by  the  volume,  and  study 
them  with  advantage,  to  the  better  understanding  of  the  exist- 
ing poem  or  picture  ; but  no  more  write  or  paint  another, 
than  by  discovering  laws  of  vegetation  they  can  make  a tree 
to  grow.  And  therefore,  wheresoever  we  find  the  system  and 
formality  of  rules  much  dwelt  upon,  and  spoken  of  as  any- 
thing else  than  a help  for  children,  there  we  may  be  sure  that 
noble  art  is  not  even  understood,  far  less  reached.  And  thus 
it  was  with  all  the  common  and  public  mind  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  greater  men,  indeed,  broke 
through  the  thorn  hedges  ; and,  though  much  time  was  lost 
by  the  learned  among  them  in  writing  Latin  verses  and  ana- 
grams, and  arranging  the  framework  of  quaint  sonnets  and 
dexterous  syllogisms,  still  they  tore  their  way  through  the 
sapless  thicket  by  force  of  intellect  or  of  piety  ; for  it  was  not 
possible  that,  either  in  literature  or  in  painting,  rules  could 
be  received  by  any  strong  mind,  so  as  materially  to  interfere 
with  its  originality  : and  the  crabbed  discipline  and  exact 
scholarship  became  an  advantage  to  the  men  who  could  pass 
through  and  despise  them  ; so  that  in  spite  of  the  rules  of  the 
drama  we  had  Shakspeare,  and  in  spite  of  the  rules  of  art  we 
had  Tintoret, — both  of  them,  to  this  day,  doing  perpetual  vio- 
lence to  the  vulgar  scholarship  and  dim-eyed  proprieties  of 
the  multitude. 

§ xc.  But  in  architecture  it  was  not  so  ; for  that  was  the 
art  of  the  multitude,  and  was  affected  by  all  their  errors  ; and 
the  great  men  who  entered  its  field,  like  Michael  xAagelo,  found 
expression  for  all  the  best  part  of  their  minds  in  sculpture, 
and  made  the  architecture  merely  its  shell.  So  the  simple- 
tons and  sophists  had  their  way  with  it  : and  the  reader  can 
have  no  conception  of  the  inanities  and  puerilities  of  the  wri- 
ters, who,  with  the  help  of  Vitruvius,  re-established  its  “five 
orders/’  determined  the  proportions  of  each,  and  gave  the 
various  recipes  for  sublimity  and  beauty,  which  have  been 
thenceforward  followed  to  this  day,  but  which  may,  I believe, 
in  this  age  of  perfect  machinery,  be  followed  out  still  farther 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


101 


If,  indeed,  there  are  only  five  perfect  forms  of  columns  and 
architraves,  and  there  be  a fixed  proportion  to  each,  it  is  cer- 
tainly possible,  with  a little  ingenuity,  so  to  regulate  a stone- 
cutting machine,  as  that  it  shall  furnish  pillars  and  friezes  to 
the  size  ordered,  of  any  of  the  five  orders,  on  the  most  perfect 
Greek  models,  in  any  quantity  ; an  epitome,  also,  of  Vitruvius, 
may  be  made  so  simple,  as  to  enable  any  bricklayer  to  set 
them  up*  at  their  proper  distances,  and  we  may  dispense  with 
our  architects  altogether. 

§ xci.  But  if  this  be  not  so,  and  there  be  any  truth  in  the 
faint  persuasion  which  still  lurks  in  men’s  minds  that  architect- 
ure is  an  art,  and  that  it  requires  some  gleam  of  intellect  to 
practise  it,  then  let  the  whole  system  of  the  orders  and  their 
proportions  be  cast  out  and  trampled  down  as  the  most  vain, 
barbarous,  and  paltry  deception  that  wTas  ever  stamped  on 
human  prejudice  ; and  let  us  understand  this  plain  truth, 
common  to  all  work  of  man,  that,  if  it  be  good  work,  it  is  not 
a copy,  nor  anything  done  by  rule,  but  a freshly  and  divinely 
imagined  thing.  Five  orders ! There  is  not  a side  chapel  in 
any  Gothic  cathedral  but  it  has  fifty  orders,  the  worst  of  them 
better  than  the  best  of  the  Greek  ones,  and  all  new  ; and  a 
single  inventive  human  soul  could  create  a thousand  orders  in 
an  hour.*  And  this  would  have  been  discovered  even  in  the 
worst  times,  but  that,  as  I said,  the  greatest  men  of  the  age 
found  expression  for  their  invention  in  the  other  arts,  and  the 
best  of  those  who  devoted  themselves  to  architecture  were  in 
great  part  occupied  in  adapting  the  construction  of  buildings 
to  new  necessities,  such  as  those  developed  by  the  invention 
of  gunpowder  (introducing  a totally  new  and  most  interesting 
science  of  fortification,  which  directed  the  ingenuity  of  San- 
micheli  and  many  others  from  its  proper  channel),  and  found 
interest  of  a meaner  kind  in  the  difficulties  of  reconciling  the 
obsolete  architectural  laws  they  had  consented  to  revive,  and 
the  forms  of  Boman  architecture  which  they  agreed  to  copy, 

* That  is  to  say,  orders  separated  by  such  distinctions  as  the  old  Greek 
ones : considered  with  reference  to  the  bearing  power  of  the  capital,  all 
orders  may  be  referred  to  two,  as  long  ago  stated  ; just  as  trees  may  be 
referred  to  the  two  great  classes,  monocotyledonous  and  dicotyledonous. 


102 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


with  the  requirements  of  the  daily  life  of  the  sixteenth  cem 
tury. 

§ xcn.  These,  then,  were  the  three  principal  directions  in 
which  the  Eenaissance  pride  manifested  itself,  and  its  im- 
pulses were  rendered  still  more  fatal  by  the  entrance  of 
another  element,  inevitably  associated  with  pride.  For,  as  it 
is  written,  “He  that  trusteth  in  his  own  heart  is  a.fool,”  so 
also  it  is  written,  “ The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  There  is  no 
God  ; ” and  the  self-adulation  which  influenced  not  less  the 
learning  of  the  age  than  its  luxury,  led  gradually  to  the  for- 
getfulness of  all  things  but  self,  and  to  an  infidelity  only  the 
more  fatal  because  it  still  retained  the  form  and  language  of 
faith. 

§ xciii.  IV.  Infidelity.  In  noticing  the  more  prominent 
forms  in  which  this  faithlessness  manifested  itself,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  distinguish  justly  between  that  which  was  the  conse- 
quence of  respect  for  Paganism,  and  that  which  followed  from 
the  corruption  of  Catholicism.  For  as  the  Eoman  architect- 
ure is  not  to  be  made  answerable  for  the  primal  corruption 
of  the  Gothic,  so  neither  is  the  Eoman  philosophy  to  be  made 
answerable  for  the  primal  corrujition  of  Christianity.  Year 
after  year,  as  the  history  of  the  life  of  Christ  sank  back  into 
the  depths  of  time,  and  became  obscured  by  the  misty  atmos- 
phere of  the  history  of  the  world,— as  intermediate  actions 
and  incidents  multiplied  in  number,  and  countless  changes  in 
men’s  modes  of  life,  and  tones  of  thought,  rendered  it  more 
difficult  for  them  to  imagine  the  facts  of  distant  time, — it  be- 
came daily,  almost  hourly,  a greater  effort  for  the  faithful 
heart  to  apprehend  the  entire  veracity  and  vitality  of  the 
story  of  its  Eedeemer  ; and  more  easy  for  the  thoughtless  and 
remiss  to  deceive  themselves  as  to  the  true  character  of  the 
belief  they  had  been  taught  to  profess.  And  this  must  have 
been  the  case,  had  the  pastors  of  the  Church  never  failed  in 
their  watchfulness,  and  the  Church  itself  never  erred  in  its 
practice  or  doctrine.  But  when  every  year  that  removed  the 
truths  of  the  Gospel  into  deeper  distance,  added  to  them  also 
some  false  or  foolish  tradition ; when  wilful  distortion  was 
added  to  natural  obscurity,  and  the  dimness  of  memory  was 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


103 


disguised  by  the  fruitfulness  of  fiction  ; when,  moreover,  the 
enormous  temporal  power  granted  to  the  clergy  attracted  into 
their  ranks  multitudes  of  men  who,  but  for  such  temptation, 
would  not  have  pretended  to  the  Christian  name,  so  that 
grievous  wolves  entered  in  among  them,  not  sparing  the  flock  ; 
and  when,  by  the  machinations  of  such  men,  and  the  remiss- 
ness of  others,  the  form  and  administrations  of  Church  doc- 
trine and  discipline  had  become  little  more  than  a means  of 
aggrandizing  the  power  of  the  priesthood,  it  was  impossible 
any  longer  for  men  of  thoughtfulness  or  piety  to  remain  in  an 
unquestioning  serenity  of  faith.  The  Church  had  become  so 
mingled  with  the  world  that  its  witness  could  no  longer  be 
received  ; and  the  professing  members  of  it,  who  were  placed 
in  circumstances  such  as  to  enable  them  to  become  aware  of 
its  corruptions,  and  whom  their  interest  or  their  simplicity 
did  not  bribe  or  beguile  into  silence,  gradually  separated 
themselves  into  two  vast  multitudes  of  adverse  energy,  one 
tending  to  Reformation,  and  the  other  to  Infidelity. 

§ xciv.  Of  these,  the  last  stood,  as  it  were,  apart,  to  watch 
the  course  of  the  struggle  between  Romanism  and  Protestant- 
ism ; a struggle  which,  however  necessary,  was  attended  with 
infinite  calamity  to  the  Church.  For,  in  the  first  place,  the 
Protestant  movement  was,  in  reality,  not  reformation  but  re- 
animation.  It  poured  new  life  into  the  Church,  but  it  did  not 
form  or  define  her  anew.  In  some  sort  it  rather  broke  down 
her  hedges,  so  that  all  they  who  passed  by  might  pluck  off 
her  grapes.  The  reformers  speedily  found  that  the  enemy 
was  never  far  behind  the  sower  of  good  seed  ; that  an  evil 
spirit  might  enter  the  ranks  of  reformation  as  well  as  those  of 
resistance ; and  that  though  the  deadly  blight  might  be 
checked  amidst  the  wheat,  there  was  no  hope  of  ever  ridding 
the  wheat  itself  from  the  tares.  New  temptations  were  in- 
vented by  Satan  wherewith  to  oppose  the  revived  strength  of 
Christianity : as  the  Romanist,  confiding  in  his  human  teachers, 
had  ceased  to  try  whether  they  wrere  teachers  sent  from  God, 
so  the  Protestant,  confiding  in  the  teaching  of  the  Spirit,  be- 
lieved every  spirit,  and  did  not  try  the  spirits  whether  they 
were  of  God.  And  a thousand  enthusiasms  and  heresies 


104: 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


speedily  obscured  the  faith  and  divided  the  force  of  the  Refor< 
mation. 

§ xcv.  But  the  mstin  evils  rose  out  of  the  antagonism  of  the 
two  great  parties  ; primarily,  in  the  mere  fact  of  the  existence 
of  an  antagonism.  To  the  eyes  of  the  unbeliever  the  Church 
of  Christ,  for  the  first  time  since  its  foundation,  bore  the  as- 
pect of  a house  divided  against  itself.  Not  that  many  forms 
of  schism  had  not  before  arisen  in  it ; but  either  they  had 
been  obscure  and  silent,  hidden  among  the  shadows  of  the 
Alps  and  the  marshes  of  the  Rhine  ; or  they  had  been  out- 
breaks of  visible  and  unmistakable  error,  cast  off  by  the 
Church,  rootless,  and  speedily  withering  away,  while,  with 
much  that  was  erring  and  criminal,  she  still  retained  within 
her  the  pillar  and  ground  of  the  truth.  But  here  was  at  last 
a schism  in  which  truth  and  authority  were  at  issue.  The 
body  that  was  cast  off  withered  away  no  longer.  It  stretched 
out  its  boughs  to  the  sea  and  its  branches  to  the  river,  and  it 
was  the  ancient  trunk  that  gave  signs  of  decrepitude.  On  one 
side  stood  the  reanimated  faith,  in  its  right  hand  the  book 
open,  and  its  left  hand  lifted  up  to  heaven,  appealing  for  its 
proof  to  the  Word  of  the  Testimony  and  the  power  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  On  the  other  stood,  or  seemed  to  stand,  all  be- 
loved custom  and  believed  tradition  ; all  that  for  fifteen  hun- 
dred years  had  been  closest  to  the  hearts  of  men,  or  most 
precious  for  their  help.  Long-trusted  legend  ; long-reverenced 
power  ; long-practised  discipline  ; faiths  that  had  ruled  the 
destiny,  and  sealed  the  departure,  of  souls  that  could  not  be 
told  or  numbered  for  multitude  ; prayers,  that  from  the  lips 
of  the  fathers  to  those  of  the  children  had  distilled  like  sweet 
waterfalls,  sounding  through  the  silence  of  ages,  breaking 
themselves  into  heavenly  dew  to  return  upon  the  pastures  of 
the  wilderness  ; hopes,  that  had  set  the  face  as  a flint  in  the 
torture,  and  the  sword  as  a flame  in  the  battle,  that  had 
pointed  the  purposes  and  ministered  the  strength  of  life, 
brightened  the  last  glances  and  shaped  the  last  syllables  of 
death  ; charities,  that  had  bound  together  the  brotherhoods 
of  the  mountain  and  the  desert,  and  had  woven  chains  of  pity- 
ing or  aspiring  communion  between  this  world  and  the  un- 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


105 


fathomable  beneath  and  above  ; and,  more  than  these,  the 
spirits  of  all  the  innumerable,  undoubting,  dead,  beckoning 
to  the  one  way  by  which  they  had  been  content  to  follow  the 
things  that  belonged  unto  their  peace  ; — these  all  stood  on  the 
other  side  : and  the  choice  must  have  been  a bitter  one,  even 
at  the  best ; but  it  was  rendered  tenfold  more  bitter  by  the 
natural,  but  most  sinful  animosity  of  the  two  divisions  of  the 
Church  against  each  other. 

§ xcvi.  On  one  side  this  animosity  was,  of  course,  inevita- 
ble. The  Romanist  party,  though  still  including  many  Chris- 
tian men,  necessarily  included,  also,  all  the  worst  of  those  who 
called  themselves  Christians.  In  the  fact  of  its  refusing  cor- 
rection, it  stood  confessed  as  the  Church  of  the  unholy  ; and, 
while  it  still  counted  among  its  adherents  many  of  the  simple 
and  believing, — men  unacquainted  with  the  corruption  of  the 
body  to  which  they  belonged,  or  incapable  of  accepting  any 
form  of  doctrine  but  that  which  they  had  been  taught  from 
their  youth, — it  gathered  together  with  them  whatever  was 
carnal  and  sensual  in  priesthood  or  in  people,  all  the  lovers  of 
power  in  the  one,  and  of  ease  in  the  other.  And  the  rage  of 
these  men  was,  of  course,  unlimited  against  those  who  either 
disputed  their  authority,  reprehended  their  manner  of  life,  or 
cast  suspicion  upon  the  popular  methods  of  lulling  the  con- 
science in  the  lifetime,  or  purchasing  salvation  on  the  death- 
bed. 

§ xcvii.  Besides  this,  the  reassertion  and  defence  of  various 
tenets  which  before  had  been  little  more  than  floating  errors 
in  the  popular  mind,  but  which,  definitely  attacked  by  Prot- 
estantism, it  became  necessary  to  fasten  down  with  a band 
of  iron  and  brass,  gave  a form  at  once  more  rigid,  and  less 
rational,  to  the  whole  body  of  Romanist  Divinity.  Multitudes 
of  minds  which  in  other  ages  might  have  brought  honor  and 
strength  to  the  Church,  preaching  the  more  vital  truths  which 
it  still  retained,  were  now  occupied  in  pleading  for  arraigned 
falsehoods,  or  magnifying  disused  frivolities  ; and  it  can  hardly 
be  doubted  by  any  candid  observer,  that  the  nascent  or  latent 
errors  which  God  pardoned  in  times  of  ignorance,  became  un- 
pardonable when  they  were  formally  defined  and  defended ; 


106 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


that  fallacies  which  were  forgiven  to  the  enthusiasm  of  a mul- 
ti tude,  were  avenged  upon  the  stubbornness  of  a Council  ; 
that,  above  all,  the  great  invention  of  the  age,  which  rendered 
God’s  word  accessible  to  every  man,  left  all  sins  against  its 
light  incapable  of  excuse  or  expiation  ; and  that  from  the 
moment  when  Rome  set  herself  in  direct  opposition  to  the 
Bible,  the  judgment  was  pronounced  upon  her,  which  madb 
her  the  scorn  and  the  prey  of  her  own  children,  and  cast  her 
down  from  the  throne  where  she  had  magnified  herself  against 
heaven,  so  low,  that  at  last  the  unimaginable  scene  of  the 
Bethlehem  humiliation  was  mocked  in  the  temples  of  Chris- 
tianity. Judea  had  seen  her  God  laid  in  the  manger  of  the 
beasts  of  burden  ; it  w^as  for  Christendom  to  stable  the  beasts 
of  burden  by  the  altar  of  her  God. 

§ xcvrn.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  w’as  the  opposition  of 
Protestantism  to  the  Papacy  less  injurious  to  itself.  That  op- 
position was,  for  the  most  part,  intemperate,  undistinguishing, 
and  incautious.  It  could  indeed  hardly  be  otherwise.  Fresh 
bleeding  from  the  sword  of  Rome,  and  still  trembling  at  her 
anathema,  the  reformed  churches  were  little  likely  to  remem- 
ber any  of  her  benefits,  or  to  regard  any  of  her  teaching. 
Forced  by  the  Romanist  contumely  into  habits  of  irreverence, 
by  the  Romanist  fallacies  into  habits  of  disbelief,  the  self- 
trusting,  rashly-reasoning  spirit  gained  ground  among  them 
daily.  Sect  branched  out  of  sect,  presumption  rose  over  pre- 
sumption ; the  miracles  of  the  early  Church  were  denied  and 
its  martyrs  forgotten,  though  their  power  and  palm  were 
claimed  by  the  members  of  every  persecuted  sect ; pride, 
malice,  wrath,  love  of  change,  masked  themselves  under  the 
thirst  for  truth,  and  mingled  with  the  just  resentment  of  de- 
ception, so  that  it  became  impossible  even  for  the  best  and 
truest  men  to  know  the  plague  of  their  own  hearts  ; while 
avarice  and  impiety  openly  transformed  reformation  into  rob- 
bery, and  reproof  into  sacrilege.  Ignorance  could  as  easily 
lead  the  foes  of  the  Church,  as  lull  her  slumber ; men  who 
would  once  have  been  the  unquestioning  recipients,  were  now 
the  shameless  inventors  of  absurd  or  perilous  superstitions  ; 
they  who  were  of  the  temper  that  walketh  in  darkness,  gained 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


107 


little  by  having  discovered  their  guides  to  be  blind  ; and  the 
simplicity  of  the  faith,  ill  understood  and  contumaciously  al- 
leged, became  an  excuse  for  the  rejection  of  the  highest  arts 
and  most  tried  wisdom  of  mankind  : while  the  learned  infidel, 
standing  aloof,  drew  his  own  conclusions,  both  from  the  ran- 
cor of  the  antagonists,  and  from  their  errors  ; believed  each 
in  all  that  he  alleged  against  the  other  ; and  smiled  with  su- 
perior humanity,  as  he  watched  the  winds  of  the  Alps  drift 
the  ashes  of  Jerome,  and  the  dust  of  England  drink  the  blood 
of  King  Charles. 

§ xcix.  Now  all  this  evil  was,  of  course,  entirely  independent 
of  the  renewal  of  the  study  of  Pagan  writers.  But  that  re- 
newal found  the  faith  of  Christendom  already  weakened  and 
divided  ; and  therefore  it  was  itself  productive  of  an  effect 
tenfold  greater  than  could  have  been  apprehended  from  it  at 
another  time.  It  acted  first,  as  before  noticed,  in  leading  the 
attention  of  all  men  to  words  instead  of  things  ; for  it  was 
discovered  that  the  language  of  the  middle  ages  had  been  cor- 
rupt,  and  the  primal  object  of  every  scholar  became  now  to 
purify  his  style.  To  this  study  of  words,  that  of  forms  being 
added,  both  as  of  matters  of  the  first  importance,  half  the  in- 
tellect of  the  age  was  at  once  absorbed  in  the  base  sciences  of 
grammar,  logic,  and  rhetoric  ; studies  utterly  unworthy  of  the 
serious  labor  of  men,  and  necessarily  rendering  those  employed 
upon  them  incapable  of  high  thoughts  or  noble  emotion.  Of 
the  debasing  tendency  of  philology,  no  proof  is  needed  beyond 
once  reading  a grammarian’s  notes  on  a great  poet ; logic  is 
unnecessary  for  men  who  can  reason  ; and  about  as  useful  to 
those  who  cannot,  as  a machine  for  forcing  one  foot  in  due 
succession  before  the  other  would  be  to  a man  who  could  not 
walk  : while  the  study  of  rhetoric  is  exclusively  one  for  men 
who  desire  to  deceive  or  to  be  deceived  ; he  who  has  the 
truth  at  his  heart  need  never  fear  the  want  of  persuasion  on 
his  tongue,  or,  if  he  fear  it,  it  is  because  the  base  rhetoric  of 
dishonesty  keeps  the  truth  from  being  heard. 

§ c.  The  study  of  these  sciences,  therefore,  naturally  made 
men  shallow  and  dishonest  in  general  ; but  it  had  a peculiarly 
fatal  effect  with  respect  to  religion,  in  the  view  which  men 


108 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


took  of  the  Bible.  Christ’s  teaching  was  discovered  not  to  be 
rhetorical,  St.  Paul’s  preaching  not  to  be  logical,  and  the 
Greek  of  the  New  Testament  not  to  be  grammatical.  The 
stern  truth,  the  profound  pathos,  the  impatient  period,  leap- 
ing from  point  to  point  and  leaving  the  intervals  for  the  hearer 
to  fill,  the  comparatively  Hebraized  and  unelaborate  idiom, 
had  little  in  them  of  attraction  for  the  students  of  phrase  and 
syllogism  ; and  the  chief  knowledge  of  the  age  became  one  of 
the  chief  stumbling-blocks  to  its  religion. 

§ ci.  But  it  was  not  the  grammarian  and  logician  alone  who 
was  thus  retarded  or  perverted  ; in  them  there  had  been  small 
loss.  The  men  who  could  truly  appreciate  the  higher  excel- 
lences of  the  classics  were  carried  away  by  a current  of  en- 
thusiasm which  withdrew  them  from  every  other  study.  Chris- 
tianity was  still  professed  as  a matter  of  form,  but  neither  the 
Bible  nor  the  writings  of  the  Fathers  had  time  left  for  their 
perusal,  still  less  heart  left  for  their  acceptance.  The  human 
mind  is  not  capable  of  more  than  a certain  amount  of  admira- 
tion or  reverence,  and  that  which  was  given  to  Horace  was 
withdrawn  from  David.  Religion  is,  of  all  subjects,  that 
which  will  least  endure  a second  place  in  the  heart  or 
thoughts,  and  a languid  and  occasional  study  of  it  was  sure 
to  lead  to  error  or  infidelity.  On  the  other  hand,  what  was 
heartily  admired  and  unceasingly  contemplated  was  soon 
brought  nigh  to  being  believed  ; and  the  systems  of  Pagan 
mythology  began  gradually  to  assume  the  places  in  the  human 
mind  from  which  the  un watched  Christianity  was  wasting. 
Men  did  not  indeed  openly  sacrifice  to  Jupiter,  or  build  silver 
shrines  for  Diana,  but  the  ideas  of  Paganism  nevertheless  be- 
came thoroughly  vital  and  present  with  them  at  all  times  ; 
and  it  did  not  matter  in  the  least,  as  far  as  respected  the  power 
of  true  religion,  whether  the  Pagan  image  was  believed  in  or 
not,  so  long  as  it  entirely  occupied  the  thoughts.  The  scholar 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  if  he  saw  the  lightning  shining  from 
the  east  unto  the  west,  thought  forthwith  of  Jupiter,  not  of 
the  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man  ; if  he  saw  the  moon  walking 
in  brightness,  he  thought  of  Diana,  not  of  the  throne  which 
was  to  be  established  for  ever  as  a faithful  witness  in  heaven ; 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


109 


and  though  his  heart  was  but  secretly  enticed,  yet  thus  he 
denied  the  God  that  is  above.* 

And,  indeed,  this  double  creed,  of  Christianity  confessed 
and  Paganism  beloved,  was  worse  that  Paganism  itself,  inas- 
much as  it  refused  effective  and  practical  belief  altogether. 
It  would  have  been  better  to  have  worshipped  Diana  and 
Jupiter  at  once,  than  to  have  gone  on  through  the  whole  of 
life  naming  one  God,  imagining  another,  and  dreading  none. 
Better,  a thousandfold,  to  have  been  “ a Pagan  suckled  in 
some  creed  outworn, ” than  to  have  stood  by  the  great  sea  of 
Eternity  and  seen  no  God  walking  on  its  waves,  no  heavenly 
world  on  its  horizon. 

§ cii.  This  fatal  result  of  an  enthusiasm  for  classical  litera- 
ture was  hastened  and  heightened  by  the  misdirection  of  the 
powers  of  art.  The  imagination  of  the  age  was  actively  set  to 
realize  these  objects  of  Pagan  belief  ; and  all  the  most  exalted 
faculties  of  man,  which,  up  to  that  period,  had  been  employed 
in  the  service  of  Faith,  were  now  transferred  to  the  service  of 
Fiction.  The  invention  which  had  formerly  been  both  sancti- 
fied and  strengthened  by  laboring  under  the  command  of 
settled  intention,  and  on  the  ground  of  assured  belief,  had 
now  the  reins  laid  upon  its  neck  by  passion,  and  all  ground  of 
fact  cut  from  beneath  its  feet  ; and  the  imagination  which 
formerly  had  helped  men  to  apprehend  the  truth,  now 
tempted  them  to  believe  a falsehood.  The  faculties  them- 
selves wasted  away  in  their  own  treason  ; one  by  one  they  fell 
in  the  potter’s  field  ; and  the  Raphael  who  seemed  sent  and 
inspired  from  heaven  that  he  might  paint  Apostles  and 
Prophets,  sank  at  once  into  powerlessness  at  the  feet  of  Apollo 
and  the  Muses. 

§ cm.  But  this  was  not  all.  The  habit  of  using  the  greatest 
gifts  of  imagination  upon  fictitious  subjects,  of  course  de- 
stroyed the  honor  and  value  of  the  same  imagination  used  in 
the  cause  of  truth.  Exactly  in  the  proportion  in  which  Jupi- 
ters  and  Mercuries  were  embodied  and  believed,  in  that  pro- 
portion Virgins  and  Angels  were  disembodied  and  disbelieved. 
The  images  summoned  by  art  began  gradually  to  assume  one 
* Job  xxi : 26-28  ; Psalm  lxxxix.  37. 


110 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


average  value  in  the  spectator’s  mind  ; and  incidents  from 
the  Iliad  and  from  the  Exodus  to  come  within  the  same  de- 
grees of  credibility.  And,  farther,  while  the  powers  of  the 
imagination  were  becoming  daily  more  and  more  languid,  be- 
cause unsupported  by  faith,  the  manual  skill  and  science  of 
the  artist  were  continually  on  the  increase.  When  these  had 
reached  a certain  point,  they  began  to  be  the  principal  things 
considered  in  the  picture,  and  its  story  or  scene  to  be  thought 
of  only  as  a theme  for  their  manifestation.  Observe  the  differ- 
ence. In  old  times,  men  used  their  powers  of  painting  to 
show  the  objects  of  faith ; in  later  times,  they  used  the  ob- 
jects of  faith  that  they  might  show  their  powers  of  painting. 
The  distinction  is  enormous,  the  difference  incalculable  as  ir- 
reconcilable. And  thus,  the  more  skilful  the  artist,  the  less 
his  subject  was  regarded  ; and  the  hearts  of  men  hardened  as 
their  handling  softened,  until  they  reached  a point  when 
sacred,  profane,  or  sensual  subjects  were  employed,  with  ab- 
solute indifference,  for  the  display  of  color  and  execution  ; 
and  gradually  the  mind  of  Europe  congealed  into  that  state 
of  utter  apathy, — inconceivable,  unless  it  had  been  witnessed, 
and  unpardonable,  unless  by  us,  who  have  been  infected 
by  it, — which  permits  us  to  place  the  Madonna  and  the 
Aphrodite  side  by  side  in  our  galleries,  and  to  pass,  with  the 
same  unmoved  inquiry  into  the  manner  of  their  handling, 
from  a Bacchanal  to  a Nativity. 

Now  all  this  evil,  observe,  would  have  been  merely  the  nec- 
essary and  natural  operation  of  an  enthusiasm  for  the  classics, 
and  of  a delight  in  the  mere  science  of  the  artist,  on  the  most 
virtuous  mind.  But  this  operation  took  place  upon  minds 
enervated  by  luxury,  and  which  were  tempted,  at  the  very 
same  period,  to  forgetfulness  or  denial  of  all  religious  princi- 
ple by  their  own  basest  instincts.  The  faith  which  had  been 
undermined  by  the  genius  of  Pagans,  was  overthrown  by  the 
crimes  of  Christians  ; and  the  ruin  which  was  begun  by 
scholarship,  was  completed  by  sensuality.  The  characters  of 
the  heathen  divinities  were  as  suitable  to  the  manners  of  the 
time  as  their  forms  were  agreeable  to  its  taste  ; and  Pagan- 
ism again  became,  in  effect,  the  religion  of  Europe.  That 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


Ill 


is  to  say,  the  civilized  world  is  at  this  moment,  collectively, 
just  as  Pagan  as  it  was  in  the  second  century  ; a small  body 
of  believers  being  now,  as  they  were  then,  representative  of 
the  Church  of  Christ  in  the  midst  of  the  faithless  : but  there 
is  just  this  difference,  and  this  very  fatal  one,  between  the 
second  and  nineteenth  centuries,  that  the  Pagans  are  nomi- 
nally and  fashionably  Christians,  and  that  there  is  every  con- 
ceivable variety  and  shade  of  belief  between  the  two  ; so  that 
not  only  is  it  most  difficult  theoretically  to  mark  the  point 
where  hesitating  trust  and  failing  practice  change  into  definite 
infidelity,  but  it  has  become  a point  of  politeness  not  to  inquire 
too  deeply  into  our  neighbor  s religious  opinions  ; and,  so 
that  no  one  be  offended  by  violent  breach  of  external  forms, 
to  waive  any  close  examination  into  the  tenets  of  faith.  The 
fact  is,  we  distrust  each  other  and  ourselves  so  much,  that 
we  dare  not  press  this  matter  ; we  know  that  if,  on  any  occa- 
sion of  general  intercourse,  we  turn  to  our  next  neighbor, 
and  put  to  him  some  searching  or  testing  question,  we  shall, 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  discover  him  to  be  only  a Christian 
in  his  own  way,  and  as  far  as  he  thinks  proper,  and  that  he 
doubts  of  many  things  which  we  ourselves  do  not  believe 
strongly  enough  to  hear  doubted  without  danger.  What  is 
in  reality  cowardice  and  faithlessness,  we  call  charity  ; and 
consider  it  the  part  of  benevolence  sometimes  to  forgive  men’s 
evil  practice  for  the  sake  of  their  accurate  faith,  and  sometimes 
to  forgive  their  confessed  heresy  for  the  sake  of  their  admira- 
ble practice.  And  under  this  shelter  of  charity,  humility,  and 
faintheartedness,  the  world,  unquestioned  by  others  or  by 
itself,  mingles  with  and  overwhelms  the  small  body  of  Chris- 
tians, legislates  for  them,  moralizes  for  them,  reasons  for 
them  ; and,  though  itself  of  course  greatly  and  beneficently 
influenced  by  the  association,  and  held  much  in  check  by  its 
pretence  to  Christianity,  yet  undermines,  in  nearly  the  same 
degree,  the  sincerity  and  practical  power  of  Christianity  itself, 
until  at  last,  in  the  very  institutions  of  which  the  administra- 
tion may  be  considered  as  the  principal  test  of  the  genuineness 
of  national  religion,  those  devoted  to  education,  the  Pagan 
system  is  completely  triumphant ; and  the  entire  body  of  the 


112 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


so-called  Christian  world  lias  established  a system  of  instruc* 
tion  for  its  youth,  wherein  neither  the  history  of  Christ’s 
Church,  nor  the  language  of  God’s  law,  is  considered  a study 
of  the  smallest  importance  ; wherein,  of  all  subjects  of  human 
inquiry,  his  own  religion  is  the  one  in  which  a youth’s  igno- 
rance is  most  easily  forgiven  ; * and  in  which  it  is  held  a light 
matter  that  he  should  be  daily  guilty  of  lying,  or  debauchery, 
or  of  blasphemy,  so  only  that  he  write  Latin  verses  accurately, 
and  with  speed. 

I believe  that  in  few  years  more  we  shall  wake  from  all 
these  errors  in  astonishment,  as  from  evil  dreams  ; having 
been  preserved,  in  the  midst  of  their  madness,  by  those  hid- 
den roots  of  active  and  earnest  Christianity  which  God’s  grace 
has  bound  in  the  English  nation  with  iron  and  brass.  But  in 
the  Venetian,  those  roots  themselves  had  withered  ; and,  from 
the  palace  of  their  ancient  religion,  their  pride  cast  them  forth 
hopelessly  to  the  pasture  of  the  brute.  From  pride  to  infidel- 
ity, from  infidelity  to  the  unscrupulous  and  insatiable  pursuit 
of  pleasure,  and  from  this  to  irremediable  degradation,  the 
transitions  were  swift,  like  the  falling  of  a star.  The  great 
palaces  of  the  haughtiest  nobles  of  Venice  were  stayed,  before 
they  had  risen  far  above  their  foundations,  by  the  blast  of  a 
penal  poverty  ; and  the  wild  grass,  on  the  unfinished  frag- 
ments of  their  mighty  shafts,  waves  at  the  tide-mark  where 
the  power  of  the  godless  people  first  heard  the  “Hitherto 
shalt  thou  come.”  And  the  regeneration  in  which  they  had 
so  vainly  trusted, — the  new  birth  and  clear  dawning,  as  they 
thought  it,  of  all  art,  all  knowledge,  and  all  hope, — became 
to  them  as  that  dawn  which  Ezekiel  saw  on  the  hills  of 
Israel : “ Behold  the  day  ; behold,  it  is  come.  The  rod  hath 
blossomed,  pride  hath  budded,  violence  is  risen  up  into  a rod 

* I shall  not  forget  the  impression  made  upon  me  at  Oxford,  when, 
going  up  for  my  degree,  and  mentioning  to  one  of  the  authorities  that  I 
had  not  had  time  enough  to  read  the  Epistles  properly,  I was  told,  that 
“the  Epistles  were  separate  sciences,  and  I need  not  trouble  myself 
about  them.” 

The  reader  will  find  some  farther  notes  on  this  subject  in  Appendix 
7,  ‘ ‘ Modern  Education.  ” 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


113 


of  wickedness.  None  of  them  shall  remain,  nor  of  their  mul- 
titude ; let  not  the  buyer  rejoice,  nor  the  seller  mourn,  for 
wrath  is  upon  all  the  multitude  thereof.” 


CHAPTEE  JH. 

GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 

§ i.  In  the  close  of  the  last  chapter  it  was  noted  that  the 
phases  of  transition  in  the  moral  temper  of  the  falling  Vene- 
tians, during  their  fall,  were  from  pride  to  infidelity,  and  from 
infidelity  to  the  unscrupulous  pursuit  of  pleasure . During 

the  last  years  of  the  existence  of  the  state,  the  minds  both  of 
the  nobility  and  the  people  seem  to  have  been  set  simply  upon 
the  attainment  of  the  means  of  self-indulgence.  There  was 
not  strength  enough  in  them  to  be  proud,  nor  forethought 
enough  to  be  ambitious.  One  by  one  the  possessions  of  the 
state  were  abandoned  to  its  enemies  ; one  by  one  the  channels 
of  its  trade  were  forsaken  by  its  own  languor,  or  occupied  and 
closed  against  it  by  its  more  energetic  rivals  ; and  the  time, 
the  resources,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  nation  were  exclusively 
occupied  in  the  invention  of  such  fantastic  and  costly  pleasures 
as  might  best  amuse  their  apathy,  lull  their  remorse,  or  dis- 
guise their  ruin. 

§ ii.  The  architecture  raised  at  Venice  during  this  period  is 
amongst  the  worst  and  basest  ever  built  by  the  hands  of  men, 
being  especially  distinguished  by  a spirit  of  brutal  mockery 
and  insolent  jest,  which,  exhausting  itself  in  deformed  and 
monstrous  sculpture,  can  sometimes  be  hardly  otherwise  defined 
than  as  the  perpetuation  in  stone  of  the  ribaldries  of  drunk- 
enness. On  such  a period,  and  on  such  work,  it  is  painful  to 
dwell,  and  I had  not  originally  intended  to  do  so  ; but  I found 
that  the  entire  spirit  of  the  Eenaissance  could  not  be  compre- 
hended unless  it  was  followed  to  its  consummation  ; and  that 
there  were  many  most  interesting  questions  arising  out  of  the 
study  of  this  particular  spirit  of  jesting,  with  reference  to 
Vol.  III. -8 


114 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


which  I have  called  it  the  Grotesque  Renaissance.  For  it  is 
not  this  period  alone  which  is  distinguished  by  such  a spirit. 
There  is  jest— perpetual,  careless,  and  not  unfrequently  ob- 
scene— in  the  most  noble  work  of  the  Gothic  periods  ; and  it 
becomes,  therefore,  of  the  greatest  possible  importance  to  ex- 
amine into  the  nature  and  essence  of  the  Grotesque  itself, 
and  to  ascertain  in  what  respect  it  is  that  the  jesting  of  art  in 
its  highest  flight,  differs  from  its  jesting  in  its  utmost  degra- 
dation. 

§ hi.  The  place  where  we  may  best  commence  our  inquiry 
is  one  renowned  in  the  history  of  Venice,  the  space  of  ground 
before  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa  ; a spot  which, 
after  the  Rialto  and  St.  Mark’s  Place,  ought  to  possess  a pecul- 
iar interest  in  the  mind  of  the  traveller,  in  consequence  of  its 
connection  with  the  most  touching  and  true  legend  of  the 
Brides  of  Venice.  That  legend  is  related  at  length  in  every 
Venetian  history,  and,  finally,  has  been  told  by  the  poet 
Rogers,  in  a way  which  renders  it  impossible  for  any  one  to 
tell  it  after  him.  I have  only,  therefore,  to  remind  the  reader 
that  the  capture  of  the  brides  took  place  in  the  cathedral 
church,  St.  Pietro  di  Castello  ; and  that  this  of  Santa  Maria 
Formosa  is  connected  with  the  tale,  only  because  it  wTas  yearly 
visited  with  prayers  by  the  Venetian  maidens,  on  the  anniver- 
sary of  their  ancestors’  deliverance.  For  that  deliverance, 
their  thanks  were  to  be  rendered  to  the  Virgin  ; and  there  was 
no  church  then  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  in  Venice,  except 
this.* 

Neither  of  the  cathedral  church,  nor  of  this  dedicated  to 
St.  Mary  the  Beautiful,  is  one  stone  left  upon  another.  But, 
from  that  which  has  been  raised  on  the  site  of  the  latter,  we 
may  receive  a most  important  lesson,  introductory  to  our  im- 
mediate subject,  if  first  we  glance  back  to  the  traditional  his- 
tory of  the  church  which  has  been  destroyed. 

§ iv.  No  more  honorable  epithet  than  “ traditional  ” can 
be  attached  to  what  is  recorded  concerning  it,  yet  I should 

* Mutinelli,  Annali  Urbani,  lib.  i.  p.  24 ; and  tlie  Chronicle  of  1738, 
quoted  by  Galliciolli : “ attrovandosi  allora  la  giesia  de  Sta.  Maria  For- 
mosa sola  giesia  del  nome  della  gloriosa  Vergine  Maria.” 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


115 


grieve  to  lose  the  legend  of  its  first  erection.  The  Bishop  of 
Uderzo,  driven  by  the  Lombards  from  his  Bishopric,  as  he 
was  praying,  beheld  in  a vision  the  Virgin  Mother,  who 
ordered  him  to  found  a church  in  her  honor,  in  the  place 
where  he  should  see  a white  cloud  rest.  And  when  he  wTent 
out,  the  white  cloud  went  before  him  ; and  on  the  place 
where  it  rested  he  built  a church,  and  it  was  called  the  Church 
of  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful,  from  the  loveliness  of  the  form  in 
which  she  had  appeared  in  the  vision.* 

The  first  church  stood  only  for  about  two  centuries.  It  was 
rebuilt  in  864,  and  enriched  with  various  relics  some  fifty 
years  later  ; relics  belonging  principally  to  St.  Nicodemus, 
and  much  lamented  when  they  and  the  church  were  together 
destroyed  by  fire  in  1105. 

It  was  then  rebuilt  in  “magnifica  forma,”  much  resembling, 
according  to  Corner,  the  architecture  of  the  chancel  of  St. 
Mark  ; f but  the  information  wThich  I find  in  various  writers, 
as  to  the  period  at  which  it  was  reduced  to  its  present  con- 
dition, is  both  sparing  and  contradictory. 

§ v.  Thus,  by  Corner,  we  are  told  that  this  church,  resem- 
bling St.  Mark’s,  “ remained  untouched  for  more  than  four 
centuries,”  until,  in  1689,  it  was  thrown  down  by  an  earth- 
quake, and  restored  by  the  piety  of  a rich  merchant,  Turrin 
Toroni,  “ in  ornatissima  forma  ; ” and  that,  for  the  greater 
beauty  of  the  renewed  church,  it  had  added  to  it  two  fa£ades 
of  marble.  With  this  information  that  of  the  Padre  dell’ 
Oratoria  agrees,  only  he  gives  the  date  of  the  earlier  rebuild- 
ing of  the  church  in  1175,  and  ascribes  it  to  an  architect  of  the 
name  of  Barbetta.  But  Quadri,  in  his  usually  accurate  little 
guide,  tells  us  that  this  Barbetta  rebuilt  the  church  in  the 

* Or  from  the  brightness  of  the  cloud,  according  to  the  Padre  who 
arranged  the  “Memorie  delle  Cliiese  di  Venezia,”  vol.  iii.  p.  7.  Com- 
pare Corner,  p.  42.  This  first  church  was  built  in  639. 

f Perhaps  both  Corner  and  the  Padre  founded  their  diluted  informa- 
tion on  the  short  sentence  of  Sansovina  : 11  Finalmente,  1’  anno  1075,  fu 
ridotta  a perfezione  da  Paolo  Barbetta,  sul  modello  del  corpo  di  mezzo 
della  cliiesa  di  S.  Marco.”  Sansovino,  however,  gives  842,  instead  of 
864,  as  the  date  of  the  first  rebuilding. 


116 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


fourteenth  century  ; and  that  of  the  two  fayades,  so  much  ad- 
mired by  Corner,  one  is  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  its 
architect  unknown  ; and  the  rest  of  the  church  is  of  the  seven- 
teenth, “in  the  style  of  Sansovino.” 

§ vi.  There  is  no  occasion  to  examine,  or  endeavor  to  recon- 
cile, these  conflicting  accounts.  All  that  is  necessary  for  the 
reader  to  know  is,  that  every  vestige  of  the  church  in  which 
the  ceremony  took  place  was  destroyed  at  lead  as  early  as 
1689  ; and  that  the  ceremony  itself,  having  been  abolished  in 
the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century,  is  only  to  be  conceived  as 
taking  place  in  that  more  ancient  church,  resembling  St. 
Mark  s,  which,  even  according  to  Quadri,  existed  until  that 
period.  I would,  therefore,  endeavor  to  fix  the  reader’s  mind, 
for  a moment,  on  the  contrast  between  the  former  and  latter 
aspect  of  this  plot  of  ground  ; the  former,  when  it  had  its 
Byzantine  church,  and  its  yearly  procession  of  the  Doge  and 
the  Brides  ; and  the  latter,  when  it  has  its  Renaissance  church 
“in  the  style  of  Sansovino,”  and  its  yearly  honoring  is  done 
away. 

§ vn.  And,  first,  let  us  consider  for  a little  the  significance 
and  nobleness  of  that  early  custom  of  the  Venetians,  which 
brought  about  the  attack  and  the  rescue  of  the  year  943  : that 
there  should  be  but  one  marriage  day  for  the  nobles  of  the 
whole  nation,*  so  that  all  might  rejoice  together  ; and  that 
the  sympathy  might  be  full,  not  only  of  the  families  who  that 
year  beheld  the  alliance  of  their  children,  and  prayed  for  them 
in  one  crowd,  weeping  before  the  altar,  but  of  all  the  families 
of  the  state,  who  saw,  in  the  day  which  brought  happiness  to 
others,  the  anniversary  of  their  own.  Imagine  the  strong 
bond  of  brotherhood  thus  sanctified  among  them,  and  con- 
sider also  the  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  youth  of  the  state  ; the 
greater  deliberation  and  openness  necessarily  given  to  the 
contemplation  of  marriage,  to  which  all  the  people  were  sol- 
emnly to  bear  testimony  ; the  more  lofty  and  unselfish  tone 
which  it  would  give  to  all  their  thoughts.  It  was  the  exact 
contrary  of  stolen  marriage.  It  was  marriage  to  which  God 

*Or  at  least  for  its  principal  families.  Vide  Appendix  8,  “Earty 
Venetian  Marriages.” 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


117 


and  man  were  taken  for  witnesses,  and  every  eye  was  invoked 
for  its  glance,  and  every  tongue  for  its  prayers.* 

§ viii.  Later  historians  have  delighted  themselves  in  dwell- 
ing on  the  pageantry  of  the  marriage  day  itself,  but  I do  not 
find  that  they  have  authority  for  the  splendor  of  their  descrip- 
tions. I cannot  find  a word  in  the  older  Chronicles  about 
the  jewels  or  dress  of  the  brides,  and  I believe  the  ceremony 
to  have  been  more  quiet  and  homely  than  is  usually  supposed. 
The  only  sentence  which  gives  color  to  the  usual  accounts  of 
it  is  one  of  Sansovino’s,  in  which  he  says  that  the  magnificent 
dress  of  the  brides  in  his  day  was  founded  “ on  ancient  cus- 
tom.” f However  this  may  have  been,  the  circumstances  of 
the  rite  were  otherwise  very  simple.  Each  maiden  brought 
her  dowry  with  her  in  a small  “cassetta,”  or  chest ; they  went 
first  to  the  cathedral,  and  waited  for  the  youths,  who  having 
come,  they  heard  mass  together,  and  the  bishop  preached  to 
them  and  blessed  them  : and  so  each  bridegroom  took  his 
bride  and  her  dowry  and  bore  her  home. 

§ ix.  It  seems  that  the  alarm  given  by  the  attack  of  the 
pirates  put  an  end  to  the  custom  of  fixing  one  day  for  all 
marriages  : but  the  main  objects  of  the  institution  were  still 

* “Nazionale  quasi  la  ceremonia,  perciocclie  per  essa  nuovi  difensori 
ad  acquistar  andava  la  patria,  sostegni  nuovi  le  leggi,  la  liberta.” — Mu - 
tineUi. . 

f “ Vestita,  per  antico  uso , di  bianco,  e con  chiorae  sparse  gih  per  le 
spalle,  conteste  con  fila  d’  oro.”  “ Dressed  according  to  ancient  usage 
in  white,  and  with  her  hair  thrown  down  upon  her  shoulders,  inter- 
woven with  threads  of  gold.”  This  was  when  she  was  first  brought  out 
of  her  chamber  to  be  seen  by  the  guests  invited  to  the  espousals.  “And 
when  the  form  of  the  espousal  has  been  gone  through,  she  is  led,  to  the 
sound  of  pipes  and  trumpets,  and  other  musical  instruments,  round  the 
room,  dancing  serenely  all  the  time , and  bowing  herself  before  the  guests 
(ballando  placidamente,  e facendo  incliini  ai  convitati) ; and  so  she  re- 
turns to  her  chamber  : and  when  other  guests  have  arrived,  she  again 
comes  forth,  and  makes  the  circuit  of  the  chamber.  And  this  is  repeated 
for  an  hour  or  somewhat  more  ; and  then,  accompanied  by  many  ladies 
who  wait  for  her,  she  enters  a gondola  without  its  felze  (canopy),  and, 
seated  on  a somewhat  raised  seat  covered  with  carpets,  with  a great 
number  of  gondolas  following  her,  she  goes  to  visit  the  monasteries  and 
convents,  wheresoever  she  has  any  relations. 


118 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


attained  by  the  perfect  publicity  given  to  the  marriages  of  all 
the  noble  families  ; the  bridegroom  standing  in  the  Court  of 
the  Ducal  Palace  to  receive  congratulations  on  his  betrothal, 
and  the  whole  body  of  the  nobility  attending  the  nuptials,  and 
rejoicing,  “as  at  some  personal  good  fortune  ; since,  by  the 
constitution  of  the  state,  they  are  for  ever  incorporated  to- 
gether, as  if  of  one  and  the  same  family.”*  But  the  festival 
of  the  2nd  of  February,  after  the  year  943,  seems  to  have  been 
observed  only  in  memory  of  the  deliverance  of  the  brides,  and 
no  longer  set  apart  for  public  nuptials. 

§ x.  There  is  much  difficulty  in  reconciling  the  various  ac- 
counts, or  distinguishing  the  inaccurate  ones,  of  the  manner 
of  keeping  this  memorable  festival.  I shall  first  give  Sanso- 
vino’s, which  is  the  popular  one,  and  then  note  the  points  of 
importance  in  the  counter-statements.  Sansovino  says  that 
the  success  of  the  pursuit  of  the  pirates  was  owing  to  the 
ready  help  and  hard  fighting  of  the  men  of  the  district  of  Sta. 
Maria  Formosa,  for  the  most  part  trunkmakers  ; and  that  they, 
having  been  presented  after  the  victory  to  the  Doge  and  the 
Senate,  were  told  to  ask  some  favor  for  their  reward.  “ The 
good  men  then  said  that  they  desired  the  Prince,  with  his 
wife  and  the  Signory,  to  visit  every  year  the  church  of  their 
district,  on  the  day  of  its  feast.  And  the  Prince  asking  them, 
‘Suppose  it  should  rain?’  they  answered,  cWe  will  give  you 
hats  to  cover  you  ; and  if  you  are  thirsty,  we  will  give  you  to 
drink/  Whence  is  it  that  the  Yicar,  in  the  name  of  the 
people,  presents  to  the  Doge,  on  his  visit,  two  flasks  of  mal- 
voisie  f and  two  oranges ; and  presents  to  him  two  gilded 
hats,  bearing  the  arms  of  the  Pope,  of  the  Prince,  and  of  the 
Yicar.  And  thus  was  instituted  the  Feast  of  the  Maries,  which 
was  called  noble  and  famous  because  the  people  from  all  round 
came  together  to  behold  it.  And  it  was  celebrated  in  this 
manner The  account  which  follows  is  some* 

* Sansovino. 

f English,  “Malmsey.”  The  reader  will  find  a most  amusing  account 
of  the  negotiations  between  the  English  and  Venetians,  touching  the 
supply  of  London  with  this  wine,  in  Mr.  Brown’s  translation  of  the 
Giustiniani  papers.  See  Appendix  IX. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


119 


wliat  prolix  ; but  its  substance  is,  briefly,  that  twelve  maidens 
were  elected,  two  for  each  division  of  the  city  ; and  that  it 
was  decided  by  lot  which  contrade,  or  quarters  of  the  town, 
should  provide  them  with  dresses.  This  was  done  at  enor- 
mous expense,  one  contrada  contending  with  another,  and 
even  the  jewels  of  the  treasury  of  St.  Mark  being  lent  for  the 
occasion  to  the  C£  Maries,”  as  the  twelve  damsels  were  called. 
They,  being  thus  dressed  with  gold,  and  silver,  and  jewels, 
went  in  their  galley  to  St.  Mark’s  for  the  Doge,  who  joined 
them  with  the  Signory,  and  went  first  to  San  Pietro  di  Cas- 
tello  to  hear  mass  on  St.  Mark’s  day,  the  31st  of  January,  and 
to  Santa  Maria  Formosa  on  the  2nd  of  February,  the  inter- 
mediate day  being  spent  in  passing  in  procession  through  the 
streets  of  the  city  ; “ and  sometimes  there  arose  quarrels 
about  the  places  they  should  pass  through,  for  every  one 
wanted  them  to  pass  by  his  house.” 

§ xi.  Nearly  the  same  account  is  given  by  Corner,  who, 
however,  does  not  say  anything  about  the  hats  or  the  mal- 
voisie.  These,  however,  we  find  again  in  the  Matricola  de’ 
Casseleri,  which,  of  course,  sets  the  services  of  the  trunk- 
makers  and  the  privileges  obtained  by  them  in  the  most  brill- 
iant light.  The  quaintness  of  the  old  Venetian  is  hardly  to 
be  rendered  into  English.  “And  you  must  know  that  the 
said  trunkmakers  were  the  men  who  were  the  cause  of  such 
victory,  and  of  taking  the  galley,  and  of  cutting  all  the  Tries- 
tines  to  pieces,  because,  at  that  time,  they  wTere  valiant  men 
and  well  in  order.  The  which  victory  was  on  the  2nd  Feb- 
ruary, on  the  day  of  the  Madonna  of  candles.  And  at  the 
request  and  entreaties  of  the  said  trunkmakers,  it  was  decreed 
that  the  Doge,  every  year,  as  long  as  Venice  shall  endure, 
should  go  on  the  eve  of  the  said  feast  to  vespers  in  the  said 
church,  with  the  Signory.  And  be  it  noted,  that  the  vicar  is 
obliged  to  give  to  the  Doge  two  flasks  of  malvoisie,  with  two 
oranges  besides.  And  so  it  is  observed,  and  will  be  observed 
always.”  The  reader  must  observe  the  continual  confusion 
between  St.  Mark’s  day  the  31st  of  January,  and  Candlemas 
the  2nd  of  February.  The  fact  appears  to  be,  that  the  mar- 
riage day  in  the  old  republic  was  St.  Mark’s  day,  and  the  re* 


120 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


covery  of  the  brides  was  the  same  day  at  evening ; so  that,  as 
we  are  told  by  Sansovino,  the  commemorative  festival  began 
on  that  day,  but  it  was  continued  to  the  day  of  the  Purifica- 
tion, that  especial  thanks  might  be  rendered  to  the  Virgin  ; 
and,  the  visit  to  Sta.  Maria  Formosa  being  the  most  important 
ceremony  of  the  whole  festival,  the  old  chroniclers,  and  even 
Sansovino,  got  confused,  and  asserted  the  victory  itself  to  have 
taken  place  on  the  day  appointed  for  that  pilgrimage. 

§ xii.  I doubt  not  that  the  reader  who  is  acquainted  with 
the  beautiful  lines  of  Rogers  is  as  much  grieved  as  I am  at  the 
interference  of  the  “casket-makers”  with  the  achievement 
which  the  poet  ascribes  to  the  bridegrooms  alone  ; an  inter- 
ference quite  as  inopportune  as  that  of  old  Le  Balafre  with 
the  victory  of  his  nephew,  in  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion  of 
“ Quentin  Durward.”  I am  afraid  I cannot  get  the  casket- 
makers  quite  out  of  the  way ; but  it  may  gratify  some  of  my 
readers  to  know  that  a chronicle  of  the  year  1378,  quoted  by 
Galliciolli,  denies  the  agency  of  the  people  of  Sta.  Maria 
Formosa  altogether,  in  these  terms  : “ Some  say  that  the  peo- 
ple of  Sta.  M.  Formosa  were  those  who  recovered  the  spoil 
(“  predra  ; ” I may  notice,  in  passing,  that  most  of  the  old 
chroniclers  appear  to  consider  the  recovery  of  the  caslcets 
rather  more  a subject  of  congratulation  than  that  of  the 
brides),  and  that,  for  their  reward,  they  asked  the  Doge  and 
Signory  to  visit  Sta.  M.  Formosa  ; but  this  is  false.  The 
going  to  Sta.  M.  Formosa  was  because  the  thing  had  succeeded 
on  that  day,  and  because  this  was  then  the  only  church  in 
Venice  in  honor  of  the  Virgin.”  Bnt  here  is  again  the  mis- 
take about  the  day  itself ; and  besides  if  we  get  rid  altogether 
of  the  trunkmakers,  how  are  we  to  account  for  the  ceremony 
of  the  oranges  and  hats,  of  which  the  accounts  seem  authentic  ? 
If,  however,  the  reader  likes  to  substitute  “ carpenters”  or 
“ house-builders  ” for  casket-makers,  he  may  do  so  with  great 
reason  (vide  Galliciolli,  lib.  ii.  § 1758)  ; but  I fear  that  one  or 
the  other  body  of  tradesmen  must  be  allowed  to  have  had  no 
small  share  in  the  honor  of  the  victory. 

§ xiii.  But  whatever  doubt  attaches  to  the  particular  cir- 
cumstances of  its  origin,  there  is  none  respecting  the  splendor 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


121 


of  the  festival  itself,  as  it  was  celebrated  for  four  centuries 
afterwards.  We  find  that  each  contrada  spent  from  800  to 
1000  zecchins  in  the  dress  of  the  “ Maries  ” entrusted  to  it  ; 
but  I cannot  find  among  how  many  contrade  the  twelve  Maries 
were  divided  ; it  is  also  to  be  supposed  that  most  of  the 
accounts  given  refer  to  the  later  periods  of  the  celebration  of 
the  festival.  In  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century,  the 
good  Doge  Pietro  Orseolo  II.  left  in  his  will  the  third  of  his 
entire  fortune  “ per  la  Festa  della  Marie  ; ” and,  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  so  many  people  came  from  the  rest  of  Italy  to 
see  it,  that  special  police  regulations  were  made  for  it,  and  the 
Council  of  Ten  were  twice  summoned  before  it  took  place.* 
The  expense  lavished  upon  it  seems  to  have  increased  till  the 
year  1379,  when  all  the  resources  of  the  republic  were  required 
for  the  terrible  war  of  Chiozza,  and  all  festivity  was  for  that 
time  put  an  end  to.  The  issue  of  the  war  left  the  Vene- 
tians with  neither  the  power  nor  the  disposition  to  restore 
the  festival  on  its  ancient  scale,  and  they  seem  to  have  been 
ashamed  to  exhibit  it  in  reduced  splendor.  It  was  entirely 
abolished. 

§ £iv.  As  if  to  do  away  even  with  its  memory,  every  feat- 
ure of  the  surrounding  scene  which  was  associated  with  that 
festival  has  been  in  succeeding  ages  destroyed.  With  one  soli- 
tary exception, f there  is  not  a house  left  in  the  whole  Piazza 
of  Santa  Maria  Formosa  from  whose  windows  the  festa  of  the 
Maries  has  ever  been  seen  : of  the  church  in  which  they  wor- 
shipped, not  a stone  is  left,  even  the  form  of  the  ground  and 
direction  of  the  neighboring  canals  are  changed ; and  there  is 
now  but  one  landmark  to  guide  the  steps  of  the  traveller  to 
the  place  where  the  white  cloud  rested,  and  the  shrine  was 
built  to  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful.  Yet  the  spot  is  still  worth 
his  pilgrimage,  for  he  may  receive  a lesson  upon  it,  though  a 
painful  one.  Let  him  first  fill  his  mind  with  the  fair  images 
of  the  ancient  festival,  and  then  seek  that  landmark  the  tower 

* “XV.  diebus  et  octo  diebus  ante  festum  Mariarum  omni  anno.” — • 
Galliciolli . The  same  precautions  were  taken  before  the  feast  of  the 
Ascension. 

f Casa  Vittura. 


122 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


of  the  modern  church,  built  upon  the  place  where  the  daughters 
of  Venice  knelt  yearly  with  her  noblest  lords  ; and  let  him 
look  at  the  head  that  is  carved  on  the  base  of  the  tower,*  still 
dedicated  to  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful. 

§ xv.  A head, — huge,  inhuman,  and  monstrous, — leering  in 
bestial  degradation,  too  foul  to  be  either  pictured  or  described, 
or  to  be  beheld  for  more  than  an  instant : yet  let  it  be  endured 
for  that  instant  ; for  in  that  head  is  embodied  the  type  of  the 
evil  spirit  to  which  Venice  was  abandoned  in  the  fourth  period 
of  her  decline  ; and  it  is  well  that  we  should  see  and  feel  the 
full  horror  of  it  on  this  spot,  and  know  what  pestilence  it  was 
that  came  and  breathed  upon  her  beauty,  until  it  melted  away 
like  the  white  cloud  from  the  ancient  fields  of  Santa  Maria 
Formosa. 

§ xvi.  This  head  is  one  of  many  hundreds  which  disgrace 
the  latest  buildings  of  the  city,  all  more  or  less  agreeing  in 
their  expression  of  sneering  mockery,  in  most  cases  enhanced 
by  thrusting  out  the  tongue.  Most  of  them  occur  upon  the 
bridges,  which  were  among  the  very  last  works  undertaken  by 
the  republic,  several,  for  instance,  upon  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
and  they  are  evidences  of  a delight  in  the  contemplation  of 
bestial  vice,  and  the  expression  of  low  sarcasm,  which  is,  I be- 
lieve, the  most  hopeless  state  into  which  the  human  mind  can 
fall.  This  spirit  of  idiotic  mockery  is,  as  I have  said,  the  most 
striking  characteristic  of  the  last  period  of  the  Renaissance, 
which,  in  consequence  of  the  character  thus  imparted  to  its 
sculpture,  I have  called  grotesque  ; but  it  must  be  our  imme- 
diate task,  and  it  will  be  a most  interesting  one,  to  distinguish 
between  this  base  grotesqueness,  and  that  magnificent  condition 
of  fantastic  imagination,  which  was  above  noticed  as  one  of  the 
chief  elements  of  the  Northern  Gothic  mind.  Nor  is  this  a 
question  of  interesting  speculation  merely  : for  the  distinction 
between  the  true  and  false  grotesque  is  one  which  the  present 
tendencies  of  the  English  mind  have  rendered  it  practically 
important  to  ascertain  ; and  that  in  a degree  which,  until  he 
has  made  some  progress  in  the  consideration  of  the  subject* 
the  reader  will  hardly  anticipate. 

* The  keystone  of  the  arch  on  its  western  side,  facing  the  canal. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


123 


§ xvn.  But,  first,  I have  to  note  one  peculiarity  in  the  late 
architecture  of  Venice,  which  will  materially  assist  us  in  un- 
derstanding the  true  nature  of  the  spirit  which  is  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  our  inquiry  ; and  this  peculiarity,  singularly  enough,  is 
first  exemplified  in  the  very  fagade  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa 
which  is  flanked  by  the  grotesque  head  to  which  our  attention 
has  just  been  directed.  This  fagade,  whose  architect  is  un- 
known, consists  of  a pediment,  sustained  on  four  Corinthian 
pilasters,  and  is,  I believe,  the  earliest  in  Venice  which  appears 
entirely  destitute  of  every  religious  symbol,  sculpture,  or  in- 
scription ; unless  the  Cardinal’s  hat  upon  the  shield  in  the 
centre  of  the  impediment  be  considered  a religious  symbol. 
The  entire  fagade  is  nothing  else  than  a monument  to  the  Ad- 
miral Vincenzo  Cappello.  Two  tablets,  one  between  each  pair 
of  flanking  pillars,  record  his  acts  and  honors  ; and,  on  the  cor- 
responding spaces  upon  the  base  of  the  church,  are  two  circular 
trophies,  composed  of  halberts,  arrows,  flags,  tridents,  helmets, 
and  lances  : sculptures  which  are  just  as  valueless  in  a military 
as  in  an  ecclesiastical  point  of  view  ; for,  being  all  copied  from 
the  forms  of  Boman  arms  and  armor,  they  cannot  even  be  re- 
ferred to  for  information  respecting  the  costume  of  the  period. 
Over  the  door,  , as  the  chief  ornament  of  the  fagade,  exactly  in 
the  spot  which  in  the  “ barbarous  ” St.  Mark’s  is  occupied  by 
the  figure  of  Christ,  is  the  statue  of  Vincenzo  Cappello,  in  Bo- 
man armor.  He  died  in  1542  ; and  wTe  have,  therefore,  the 
latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century  fixed  as  the  period  when,  in 
Venice,  churches  were  first  built  to  the  glory  of  man,  instead 
of  the  glory  of  God. 

§ xvm.  Throughout  the  whole  of  Scripture  history,  nothing 
is  more  remarkable  than  the  close  connection  of  punishment 
with  the  sin  of  vain- glory.  Every  other  sin  is  occasionally  per- 
mitted to  remain,  for  lengthened  periods,  without  defiuite 
chastisement ; but  the  forgetfulness  of  God,  and  the  claim  of 
honor  by  man,  as  belonging  to  himself,  are  visited  at  once, 
whether  in  Hezekiah,  Nebuchadnezzar,  or  Herod,  with  the 
most  tremendous  punishment.  We  have  already  seen,  that  the 
first  reason  for  the  fall  of  Venice  was  the  manifestation  of  such 
a spirit ; and  it  is  most  singular  to  observe  the  definiteness  with 


124 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


which  it  is  here  marked, — as  if  so  appointed,  that  it  might  be 
impossible  for  future  ages  to  miss  the  lesson.  For,  in  the  long 
inscriptions  * which  record  the  acts  of  Vincenzo  Cappello,  it 
might,  as  least,  have  been  anticipated  that  some  expressions 
would  occur  indicative  of  remaining  pretence  to  religious  feel- 
ing, or  formal  acknowledgement  of  Divine  power.  But  there 
are  none  whatever.  The  name  of  God  does  not  once  occur  ; 
that  of  St.  Mark  is  found  only  in  the  statement  that  Cappello 
was  a procurator  of  the  church  : there  is  no  word  touching 
either  on  the  faith  or  hope  of  the  deceased  ; and  the  only  sen- 
tence which  alludes  to  supernatural  powers  at  all,  alludes  to 
them  under  the  heathen  name  of  fates , in  its  explanation  of 
what  the  Admiral  Cappello  viould  have  accomplished,  “ nisi 
fata  Christianis  adversa  vetuissent.M 

§ xix.  Having  taken  sufficient  note  of  all  the  baseness  of 
mind  which  these  facts  indicate  in  the  people,  we  shall  not  be 
surprised  to  find  immediate  signs  of  dotage  in  the  conception 

* The  inscriptions  are  as  follows: 

To  the  left  of  the  reader. 

“ VINCENTIUS  CAPELLUS  MARITIMARUM 
RE  RUM  PERITISSIMU S ET  ANTIQUORUM 
LAUDIBUS  PAR,  TRIREMIUM  ONERARIA 
RUM  PR^EFECTUS,  AB  HENRICO  VII.  BRI 
TANNINE  REGE  INSIGNE  DONATUS  CLAS 
SIS  LEGATUS  V.  IMP.  DESIG.  TER  CLAS 
SEM  DEDUXIT,  COLLAPSAM  NAYALEM  DIS 
CIPLINAM  RESTITUIT,  AD  ZACXINTHUM 
AURLE  OESARIS  LEGATO  PRISCAM 
VENETAM  VIRTUTEM  OSTENDIT.” 

To  the  right  of  the  reader. 

“ IN  AMBRACIO  SINU  BARBARUSSUM  OTTHO 
MANIC^E  CLASSIS  DUCEM  INCLUSIT 
POSTRIDIE  AD  INTERNITIONEM  DELETU 
RUS  NISI  FATA  CHRISTIANIS  ADYERSA 
VETUISSENT.  IN  RYZONICO  SINU  CASTRO  NOYO 
EXPUGNATO  DIVI  MARCI  PROCUR 
UNIYERSO  REIP  CONSENSU  CREATUS 
IN  P ATRIA  MORITUR  TOTIUS  CIVITATIS 
MCKRORE,  ANNO  HSTATIS  LXXIY.  MDCXLII.  XIV.  KAL  SEPT." 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


125 


of  their  architecture.  The  churches  raised  throughout  this 
period  are  so  grossly  debased,  that  even  the  Italian  critics  of 
the  present  day,  who  are  partially  awakened  to  the  true  state 
of  art  in  Italy,  though  blind,  as  yet,  to  its  true  cause,  exhaust 
their  terms  of  reproach  upon  these  last  efforts  of  the  Kenais- 
sance  builders.  The  two  churches  of  San  Moise  and  Santa 
Maria  Zobenigo,  which  are  among  the  most  remarkable  in 
Venice  for  their  manifestation  of  insolent  atheism,  are  char- 
acterized by  Lazari,  the  one  as  “ culmine  d’  ogni  follia  archi- 
tettonica,”  the  other  as  “orrido  ammasso  di  pietra  d’  Istria/’ 
with  added  expressions  of  contempt,  as  just  as  it  is  unmiti- 
gated. 

§ xx.  Now  both  these  churches,  which  I should  like  the 
reader  to  visit  in  succession,  if  possible,  after  that  of  Sta. 
Maria  Formosa,  agree  with  that  church,  and  with  each  other, 
in  being  totally  destitute  of  religious  symbols,  and  entirely 
dedicated  to  the  honor  of  two  Venetian  families.  In  San 
Moise,  a bust  of  Vincenzo  Fitii  is  set  on  a tall  narrow  pyramid, 
above  the  central  door,  with  this  marvellous  inscription : 

“ OMNE  FASTIGIVM 
VIRTVTE  IMPLET 
VINCENTIVS  FINI.” 

It  is  very  difficult  to  translate  this  ; for  fastigium,  besides 
its  general  sense,  has  a particular  one  in  architecture,  and  re- 
fers to  the  part  of  the  building  occupied  by  the  bust ; but  the 
main  meaning  of  it  is  that  “ Vincenzo  Fini  fills  all  height  with 
his  virtue.”  The  inscription  goes  on  into  farther  praise,  but 
this  example  is  enough.  Over  the  two  lateral  doors  are  two 
other  laudatory  inscriptions  of  younger  members  of  the  Fini 
family,  the  dates  of  death  of  the  three  heroes  being  1660, 
1685,  and  1726,  marking  thus  the  period  of  consummate 
degradation. 

§ xxi.  In  like  manner,  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  Zobenigo 
is  entirely  dedicated  to  the  Barbaro  family ; the  only  religious 
symbols  with  which  it  is  invested  being  statues  of  angels  blow- 
ing brazen  trumpets,  intended  to  express  the  spreading  of  the 


126 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


fame  of  the  Barbaro  family  in  heaven.  At  the  top  of  the 
church  is  Venice  crowned,  between  Justice  and  Temperance, 
Justice  holding  a pair  of  grocer’s  scales,  of  iron,  swinging  in 
the  wind.  There  is  a two-necked  stone  eagle  (the  Barbaro 
crest),  with  a copper  crown,  in  the  centre  of  the  pediment. 
A huge  statue  of  a Barbaro  in  armor,  with  a fantastic  head- 
dress, over  the  central  door  ; and  four  Barbaros  in  niches,  two 
on  each  side  of  it,  strutting  statues,  in  the  common  stage 
postures  of  the  period, — Jo.  Maria  Barbaro,  sapiens  ordinum  ; 
Marinus  Barbaro,  Senator  (reading  a speech  in  a Ciceronian 
attitude)  ; Franc.  Barbaro,  legatus  in  classe  (in  armor,  with 
high-heeled  boots,  and  looking  resolutely  fierce)  ; and  Carolus 
Barbaro,  sapiens  ordinum  : the  decorations  of  the  fa$ade  being 
completed  by  two  trophies,  consisting  of  drums,  trumpets, 
flags  and  cannon ; and  six  plans,  sculptured  in  relief,  of  the 
towns  of  Zara,  Candia,  Padua,  Borne,  Corfu,  and  Spalatro. 

§ xxn.  When  the  traveller  has  sufficiently  considered  the 
meaning  of  this  fa§ade,  he  ought  to  visit  the  Church  of  St. 
Eustachio,  remarkable  for  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  group  of 
sculpture  on  its  facade,  and  then  the  Church  of  the  Ospeda- 
letto  (see  Index,  under  head  Ospedaletto)  ; noticing,  on  his 
way,  the  heads  on  the  foundations  of  the  Palazzo  Corner  della 
Begina,  and  the  Palazzo  Pesaro,  and  any  other  heads  carved 
on  the  modern  bridges,  closing  with  those  on  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs. 

He  will  then  have  obtained  a perfect  idea  of  the  style  and 
feeling  of  the  Grotesque  Benaissance.  I cannot  pollute  this 
volume  by  any  illustration  of  its  w7orst  forms,  but  the  head 
turned  to  the  front,  on  the  right-hand  in  the  opposite  Plate, 
will  give  the  general  reader  an  idea  of  its  most  graceful  and 
refined  developments.  The  figure  set  beside  it,  on  the  left,  is 
a piece  of  noble  grotesque,  from  fourteenth  century  Gothic  ; 
and  it  must  be  our  present  task  to  ascertain  the  nature  of  the 
difference  which  exists  between  the  two,  by  an  accurate  in- 
quiry into  the  true  essence  of  the  grotesque  spirit  itself. 

§ xxm.  First,  then,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  grotesque  is,  in 
almost  all  cases,  composed  of  two  elements,  one  ludicrous,  the 
other  fearful  ; that,  as  one  or  other  of  these  elements  prevails, 


Plate  III.  Noble  and  Ignoble  Grotesque. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE, 


127 


the  grotesque  falls  into  two  branches,  sportive  grotesque  and 
terrible  grotesque  ; but  that  we  cannot  legitimately  consider 
it  under  these  two  aspects,  because  there  are  hardly  any  ex- 
amples which  do  not  in  some  degree  combine  both  elements  *, 
there  are  few  grotesques  so  utterly  playful  as  to  be  overcast 
wTith  no  shade  of  fearfulness,  and  few  so  fearful  as  absolutely 
to  exclude  all  ideas  of  jest.  But  although  we  cannot  separate 
the  grotesque  itself  into  two  branches,  wTe  may  easily  examine 
separately  the  two  conditions  of  mind  which  it  seems  to  com- 
bine ; and  consider  successively  what  are  the  kinds  of  jest, 
and  what  the  kinds  of  fearfulness,  which  may  be  legitimately 
expressed  in  the  various  walks  of  art,  and  how  their  expres- 
sions actually  occur  in  the  Gothic  and  Renaissance  schools. 

First,  then,  what  are  the  conditions  of  playfulness  which 
we  may  fitly  express  in  noble  art,  or  which  (for  this  is  the 
same  thing)  are  consistent  with  nobleness  in  humanity  ? In 
other  words,  what  is  the  proper  function  of  play,  with  respect 
not  to  youth  merely,  but  to  all  mankind  ? 

§ xxiv.  It  is  a much  more  serious  question  than  may  be  at 
first  supposed  ; for  a healthy  manner  of  play  is  necessary  in 
order  to  a healthy  manner  of  work  : and  because  the  choice 
of  our  recreation  is,  in  most  cases,  left  to  ourselves,  while  the 
nature  of  our  work  is  generally  fixed  by  necessity  or  authority, 
it  may  be  well  doubted  whether  more  distressful  consequences 
may  not  have  resulted  from  mistaken  choice  in  play  than  from 
mistaken  direction  in  labor. 

§ xxv.  Observe,  however,  that  we  are  only  concerned,  here, 
with  that  kind  of  play  which  causes  laughter  or  implies  rec- 
reation, not  with  that  which  consists  in  the  excitement  of  the 
energies  whether  of  body  or  mind.  Muscular  exertion  is,  in- 
deed, in  youth,  one  of  the  conditions  of  recreation  ; “ but  neither 
the  violent  bodily  labor  which  children  of  all  ages  agree  to  call 
play,”  nor  the  grave  excitement  of  the  mental  faculties  in 
games  of  skill  or  chance,  are  in  anywise  connected  with  the 
state  of  feeling  we  have  here  to  investigate,  namely,  that 
sportiveness  which  man  possesses  in  common  with  many  infe- 
rior creatures,  but  to  which  his  higher  faculties  give  nobler  ex- 
pression in  the  various  manifestations  of  wit,  humor,  and  fancy. 


128 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


With  respect  to  the  manner  in  which  this  instinct  of  play' 
fulness  is  indulged  or  repressed,  mankind  are  broadly  dis« 
tinguishable  into  four  classes  : the  men  who  play  wisely ; who 
play  necessarily  ; who  play  inordinately ; and  who  play  not  at 
all. 

§ xxvi.  First  : Those  who  play  wisely.  It  is  evident  that 

the  idea  of  any  kind  of  play  can  only  be  associated  with  the 
idea  of  an  imperfect,  childish,  and  fatigable  nature.  As  far 
as  men  can  raise  that  nature,  so  that  it  shall  no  longer  be  in- 
terested by  trifles  or  exhausted  by  toils,  they  raise  it  above 
play  ; he  whose  heart  is  at  once  fixed  upon  heaven,  and  open 
to  the  earth,  so  as  to  apprehend  the  importance  of  heavenly 
doctrines,  and  the  compass  of  human  sorrow,  will  have  little 
disposition  for  jest ; and  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  breadth 
and  depth  of  his  character  and  intellect,  will  be,  in  general, 
the  incapability  of  surprise,  or  exuberant  and  sudden  emotion, 
which  must  render  play  impossible.  It  is,  however,  evi- 
dently not  intended  that  many  men  should  even  reach,  far 
less  pass  their  lives  in,  that  solemn  state  of  thoughtfulness, 
which  brings  them  into  the  nearest  brotherhood  with  their 
Divine  Master ; and  the  highest  and  healthiest  state  which  is 
competent  to  ordinary  humanity  appears  to  be  that  which, 
accepting  the  necessity  of  recreation,  and  yielding  k the  im- 
pulses of  natural  delight  springing  out  of  health  and  in- 
nocence, does,  indeed,  condescend  often  to  playfulness,  but 
never  without  such  deep  love  of  God,  of  truth,  and  of  human- 
ity, as  shall  make  even  its  slightest  words  reverent,  its  idlest 
fancies  profitable,  and  its  keenest  satire  indulgent.  Words- 
worth and  Plato  furnish  us  with,  perhaps,  the  finest  and 
highest  examples  of  this  playfulness  : in  the  one  case,  un- 
mixed with  satire,  the  perfectly  simple  effusion  of  that  spirit 

“ Which  gives  to  all  the  self-same  bent, 

Whose  life  is  wise,  and  innocent ; ” 

— in  Plato,  and,  by  the  by,  in  a very  wise  book  of  our  own 
times,  not  unworthy  of  being  named  in  such  companionship, 

Friends  in  Council,”  mingled  with  an  exquisitely  tender 
and  loving  satire. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


129 


§ xxvii.  Secondly : The  men  who  play  necessarily.  That 

highest  species  of  playfulness,  which  we  have  just  been  con- 
sidering, is  evidently  the  condition  of  a mind,  not  only  highly 
cultivated,  but  so  habitually  trained  to  intellectual  labor  that 
it  can  bring  a considerable  force  of  accurate  thought  into  its 
moments  even  of  recreation.  This  is  not  possible,  unless 
so  much  repose  of  mind  and  heart  are  enjoyed,  even  at 
the  periods  of  greatest  exertion,  that  the  rest  required  by  the 
system  is  diffused  over  the  whole  life.  To  the  majority  of 
mankind,  such  a state  is  evidently  unattainable.  They  must, 
perforce,  pass  a large  part  of  their  lives  in  employments  both 
irksome  and  toilsome,  demanding  an  expenditure  of  energy 
which  exhausts  the  system,  and  yet  consuming  that  energy 
upon  subjects  incapable  of  interesting  the  nobler  faculties. 
When  such  employments  are  intermitted,  those  noble  in- 
stincts, fancy,  imagination,  and  curiosity  are  all  hungry  for 
the  food  which  the  labor  of  the  day  has  denied  to  them, 
while  yet  the  weariness  of  the  body,  in  a great  degree,  forbids 
their  application  to  any  serious  subject.  They  therefore  ex- 
ert themselves  without  any  determined  purpose,  and  under 
no  vigorous  restraint,  but  gather,  as  best  they  may,  such  vari- 
ous nourishment,  and  put  themselves  to  such  fantastic  exer- 
cise, as  may  soonest  indemnify  them  for  their  past  imprison- 
ment, and  prepare  them  to  endure  their  recurrence.  Thi3 
stretching  of  the  mental  limbs  as  their  fetters  fall  away, — 
this  leaping  and  dancing  of  the  heart  and  intellect,  when  they 
are  restored  to  the  fresh  air  of  heaven,  yet  half  paralyzed  by 
their  captivity,  and  unable  to  turn  themselves  to  any  earnest 
purpose, — I call  necessary  play.  It  is  impossible  to  exagger- 
ate its  importance,  whether  in  polity,  or  in  art, 

§ xxviii.  Thirdly : The  men  who  play  inordinately.  The 
most  perfect  state  of  society  which,  consistently  with  due  un- 
derstanding of  man’s  nature,  it  may  be  permitted  us  to  con- 
ceive, would  be  one  in  which  the  whole  human  race  were 
divided,  more  or  less  distinctly,  into  workers  and  thinkers  ; 
that  is  to  say,  into  the  two  classes,  who  only  play  wisely,  or 
play  necessarily.  But  the  number  and  the  toil  of  the  working 
class  are  enormously  increased,  probably  more  than  doubled, 
Von  III. -9 


130 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


by  the  vices  of  the  men  who  neither  play  wisely  nor  neces* 
sarily,  but  are  enabled  by  circumstances,  and  permitted  by 
their  want  of  principle,  to  make  amusement  the  object  of 
their  existence.  There  is  not  any  moment  of  the  lives  of 
such  men  which  is  not  injurious  to  others  ; both  because  they 
leave  the  w7ork  undone  which  was  appointed  for  them,  and 
because  they  necessarily  think  wrongly,  whenever  it  becomes 
compulsory  upon  them  to  think  at  all.  The  greater  portion 
of  the  misery  of  this  world  arises  from  the  false  opinions  of 
men  whose  idleness  has  physically  incapacitated  them  from 
forming  true  ones.  Every  duty  which  we  omit  obscures 
some  truth  which  we  should  have  known  ; and  the  guilt  of 
a life  spent  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  is  twofold,  partly  con- 
sisting in  the  perversion  of  action,  and  partly  in  the  dissem- 
ination of  falsehood. 

§ xxix.  There  is,  however,  a less  criminal,  though  hardly 
less  dangerous  condition  of  mind ; which,  though  not  failing 
in  its  more  urgent  duties,  fails  in  the  finer  conscientiousness 
which  regulates  the  degree,  and  directs  the  choice,  of  amuse- 
ment, at  those  times  when  amusement  is  allowable.  The  most 
frequent  error  in  this  respect  is  the  wTant  of  reverence  in  ap- 
proaching subjects  of  importance  or  sacredness,  and  of  caution 
in  the  expression  of  thoughts  which  may  encourage  like  irrev- 
erence in  others : and  these  faults  are  apt  to  gain  upon  the 
mind  until  it  becomes  habitually  more  sensible  to  what  is  lu- 
dicrous and  accidental,  than  to  what  is  grave  and  essential,  in 
any  subject  that  is  brought  before  it ; or  even,  at  last,  desires 
to  perceive  or  to  know  nothing  but  what  may  end  in  jest. 
Very  generally  minds  of  this  character  are  active  and  able  ; 
and  many  of  them  are  so  far  conscientious,  that  they  believe 
their  jesting  forwards  their  work.  But  it  is  difficult  to  calcu- 
late the  harm  they  do,  by  destroying  the  reverence  which  is 
our  best  guide  into  all  truth  ; for  weakness  and  evil  are  easily 
visible,  but  greatness  and  goodness  are  often  latent ; and  we 
do  infinite  mischief  by  exposing  weakness  to  eyes  which  can- 
not comprehend  greatness.  This  error,  however,  is  more  con- 
nected with  abuses  of  the  satirical  than  of  the  playful  instinct  ; 
a»d  I shall  have  more  to  say  of  it  presently. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


131 


§ xxx.  Lastly  : The  men  who  do  not  play  at  all : those 
who  are  so  dull  or  so  morose  as  to  be  incapable  of  inventing 
or  enjoying  jest,  and  in  whom  care,  guilt,  or  pride  represses 
all  healthy  exhilaration  of  the  fancy  ; or  else  men  utterly  op- 
pressed with  labor,  and  driven  too  hard  by  the  necessities  of 
the  world  to  be  capable  of  any  species  of  happy  relaxation. 

§ xxxi.  We  have  now  to  consider  the  way  in  which  the  pres- 
ence or  absence  of  joyfulness,  in  these  several  classes,  is  ex- 
pressed in  art. 

1.  Wise  play.  The  first  and  noblest  class  hardly  ever 
speak  through  art,  except  seriously  ; they  feel  its  nobleness 
too  profoundly,  and  value  the  time  necessary  for  its  produc- 
tion too  highly,  to  employ  it  in  the  rendering  of  trivial 
thoughts.  The  playful  fancy  of  a moment  may  innocently  be 
expressed  by  the  passing  word  ; but  he  can  hardly  have 
learned  the  preciousness  of  life,  who  passes  days  in  the  elabo- 
ration of  a jest.  And,  as  to  what  regards  the  delineation  of 
human  character,  the  nature  of  all  noble  art  is  to  epitomize 
and  embrace  so  much  at  once,  that  its  subject  can  never  be 
altogether  ludicrous  ; it  must  possess  all  the  solemnities  of  the 
whole,  not  the  brightness  of  the  partial,  truth.  For  all  truth 
that  makes  us  smile  is  partial.  The  novelist  amuses  us  by  his 
relation  of  a particular  incident ; but  the  painter  cannot  set 
any  one  of  his  characters  before  us  without  giving  some 
glimpse  of  its  whole  career.  That  of  which  the  historian  in- 
forms us  in  successive  pages,  it  is  the  task  of  the  painter  to 
inform  us  of  at  once,  writing  upon  the  countenance  not 
merely  the  expression  of  the  moment,  but  the  history  of  the 
life  : and  the  history  of  a life  can  never  be  a jest. 

Whatever  part,  therefore,  of  the  sportive  energy  of  these 
men  of  the  highest  class  would  be  expressed  in  verbal  wit  or 
humor  finds  small  utterance  through  their  art,  and  will  assur- 
edly be  confined,  if  it  occur  there  at  all,  to  scattered  and 
trivial  incidents.  But  so  far  as  their  minds  can  recreate 
themselves  by  the  imagination  of  strange,  yet  not  laughable, 
forms,  which,  either  in  costume,  in  landscape,  or  in  any  other 
accessories,  may  be  combined  with  those  necessary  for  their 
more  earnest  purposes,  we  find  them  delighting  in  such  inven* 


132 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE \ 


tions  ; and  a species  of  grotesqueness  thence  arising  in  all 
their  work,  which  is  indeed  one  of  its  most  valuable  charac- 
teristics, but  which  is  so  intimately  connected  with  the  sublime 
or  terrible  form  of  the  grotesque,  that  it  will  be  better  to 
notice  it  under  that  head. 

§ xxxii.  2.  Necessary  play.  I have  dwelt  much  in  a 
former  portion  of  this  work,  on  the  justice  and  desirableness 
of  employing  the  minds  of  inferior  workmen,  and  of  the  lower 
orders  in  general,  in  the  production  of  objects  of  art  of  one 
kind  or  another.  So  far  as  men  of  this  class  are  compelled  to 
hard  manual  labor  for  their  daily  bread,  so  far  forth  their 
artistical  efforts  must  be  rough  and  ignorant,  and  their  artisti- 
cal  perceptions  comparatively  dull.  Now  it  is  not  possible, 
with  blunt  perceptions  and  rude  hands,  to  produce  works 
which  shall  be  pleasing  by  their  beauty ; but  it  is  perfectly 
possible  to  produce  such  as  shall  be  interesting  by  their  char- 
acter or  amusing  by  their  satire.  For  one  hard-working  man 
who  possesses  the  finer  instincts  which  decide  on  perfection  of 
lines  and  harmonies  of  color,  twenty  possess  dry  humor  or 
quaint  fancy  ; not  because  these  faculties  were  originally  given 
to  the  human  race,  or  to  any  section  of  it,  in  greater  degree 
than  the  sense  of  beauty,  but  because  these  are  exercised  in 
our  daily  intercourse  with  each  other,  and  developed  by  the 
interest  which  we  take  in  the  affairs  of  life,  while  the  others 
are  not.  And  because,  therefore,  a certain  degree  of  success 
will  probably  attend  the  effort  to  express  this  humor  or  fancy, 
wrhile  comparative  failure  will  assuredly  result  from  an  igno- 
rant struggle  to  reach  the  forms  of  solemn  beauty,  the  work- 
ingman, who  turns  his  attention  partially  to  art,  will  probably, 
and  wisely,  choose  to  do  that  which  he  can  do  best,  and  in- 
dulge the  pride  of  an  effective  satire  rather  than  subject  him- 
self to  assured  mortification  in  the  pursuit  of  beauty  ; and 
this  the  more,  because  we  have  seen  that  his  application  to  art 
is  to  be  playful  and  recreative,  and  it  is  not  in  recreation  that 
the  conditions  of  perfection  can  be  fulfilled. 

§ xxxiii.  Now  all  the  forms  of  art  which  result  from  the 
comparatively  recreative  exertion  of  minds  more  or  less  blunted 
or  encumbered  by  other  cares  and  toils,  the  art  which  we  may 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


133 


call  generally  art  of  the  wayside,  as  opposed  to  that  which  is 
the  business  of  men’s  lives,  is,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word, 
Grotesque.  And  it  is  noble  or  inferior,  first,  according  to  the 
tone  of  the  minds  which  have  produced  it,  and  in  proportion 
to  their  knowledge,  wit,  love  of  truth,  and  kindness  ; secondly, 
according  to  the  degree  of  strength  they  have  been  able  to 
give  forth  ; but  yet,  however  much  we  may  find  in  it  needing 
to  be  forgiven,  always  delightful  so  long  as  it  is  the  work  of 
good  and  ordinarily  intelligent  men.  And  its  delightfulness 
ought  mainly  to  consist  in  those  very  imperfections  which 
mark  it  for  work  done  in  times  of  rest.  It  is  not  its  own 
merit  so  much  as  the  enjoyment  of  him  who  produced  it, 
which  is  to  be  the  source  of  the  spectator’s  pleasure  ; it  is  to 
the  strength  of  his  sympathy,  not  to  the  accuracy  of  his  criti- 
cism, that  it  makes  appeal ; and  no  man  can  indeed  be  a lover 
of  what  is  best  in  the  higher  walks  of  art,  who  has  not  feeling 
and  charity  enough  to  rejoice  with  the  rude  sportiveness  of 
hearts  that  have  escaped  out  of  prison,  and  to  be  thankful  for 
the  flowers  which  men  have  laid  their  burdens  down  to  sow 
by  the  wayside. 

§ xxxiv.  And  consider  what  a vast  amount  of  human  work 
this  right  understanding  of  its  meaning  will  make  fruitful  and 
admirable  to  us,  which  otherwise  we  could  only  have  passed 
by  with  contempt.  There  is  very  little  architecture  in  the 
world  which  is,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  words,  good  and  noble. 
A few  pieces  of  Italian  Gothic  and  Romanesque,  a few  scat- 
tered fragments  of  Gothic  cathedrals,  and  perhaps  two  or 
three  of  Greek  temples,  are  all  that  we  possess  approaching 
to  an  ideal  of  perfection.  All  the  rest — Egyptian,  Norman, 
Arabian,  and  most  Gothic,  and,  which  is  very  noticeable,  for 
the  most  part  all  the  strongest  and  mightiest — depend  for  their 
power  on  some  development  of  the  grotesque  spirit ; but 
much  more  the  inferior  domestic  architecture  of  the  middle 
ages,  and  what  similar  conditions  remain  to  this  day  in  coun- 
tries from  which  the  life  of  art  has  not  yet  been  banished  by 
its  laws.  The  fantastic  gables,  built  up  in  scroll-work  and 
steps,  of  the  Flemish  street ; the  pinnacled  roofs  set  with 
their  small  humorist  double  windows,  as  if  with  so  many  ears 


134: 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE, \ 


and  eyes,  of  Northern  France  ; the  blackened  timbers,  crossed 
and  carved  into  every  conceivable  waywardness  of  imagina- 
tion, of  Normandy  and  old  England  ; the  rude  hewing  of  the 
pine  timbers  of  the  Swiss  cottage  ; the  projecting  turrets  and 
bracketed  oriels  of  the  German  street ; these,  and  a thousand 
other  forms,  not  in  themselves  reaching  any  high  degree  of 
excellence,  are  yet  admirable,  and  most  precious,  as  the  fruits 
of  a rejoicing  energy  in  uncultivated  minds.  It  is  easier  to 
take  away  the  energy,  than  to  add  the  cultivation  ; and  the 
only  effect  of  the  better  knowledge  which  civilized  nations 
now  possess,  has  been,  as  we  have  seen  in  a former  chapter, 
to  forbid  their  being  happy,  without  enabling  them  to  be 
great. 

§ xxxv.  It  is  very  necessary,  however,  with  respect  to  this 
provincial  or  rustic  architecture,  that  we  should  carefully  dis- 
tinguish its  truly  grotesque  from  its  picturesque  elements.  In 
the  “ Seven  Lamps  ” I defined  the  picturesque  to  be  “ parasiti- 
cal sublimity,”  or  sublimity  belonging  to  the  external  or  acci- 
dental characters  of  a thing,  not  to  the  thing  itself.  For 
instance,  when  a highland  cottage  roof  is  covered  with  frag- 
ments of  shale  instead  of  slates,  it  becomes  picturesque,  be- 
cause the  irregularity  and  rude  fractures  of  the  rocks,  and 
their  grey  and  gloomy  color,  give  to  it  something  of  the 
savageness,  and  much  of  the  general  aspect,  of  the  slope  of  a 
mountain  side.  But  as  a mero  cottage  roof,  it  cannot  be  sub- 
lime, and  whatever  sublimity  it  derives  from  the  wildness  or 
sternness  which  the  mountains  have  given  it  in  its  covering, 
is,  so  far  forth,  parasitical.  The  mountain  itself  would  have 
been  grand,  which  is  much  more  than  picturesque  ; but  the 
cottage  cannot  be  grand  as  such,  and  the  parasitical  grandeur 
which  it  may  possess  by  accidental  qualities,  is  the  character 
for  which  men  have  long  agreed  to  use  the  inaccurate  word 
“ Picturesque.” 

§ xxxvi.  On  the  other  hand,  beauty  cannot  be  parasitical. 
There  is  nothing  so  small  or  so  contemptible,  but  it  may  be 
beautiful  in  its  own  right.  The  cottage  may  be  beautiful,  and 
the  smallest  moss  that  grows  on  its  roof,  and  the  minutest 
fibre  of  that  moss  which  the  microscope  can  raise  into  visible 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


135 


form,  and  all  of  them  in  their  own  right,  not  less  than,  the 
mountains  and  the  sky ; so  that  we  use  no  peculiar  term  to 
express  their  beauty,  however  diminutive,  but  only  when  the 
sublime  element  enters,  without  sufficient  worthiness  in  the 
nature  of  the  thing  to  which  it  is  attached. 

§ xxxvii.  Now  this  picturesque  element,  which  is  always 
given,  if  by  nothing  else,  merely  by  ruggedness,  adds  usually 
very  largely  to  the  pleasurableness  of  grotesque  work,  espe- 
cially to  that  of  its  inferior  kinds  ; but  it  is  not  for  this  reason 
to  be  confounded  with  the  grotesqueness  itself.  The  knots 
and  rents  of  the  timbers,  the  irregular  lying  of  the  shingles  on 
the  roofs,  the  vigorous  light  and  shadow,  the  fractures  and 
weather-stains  of  the  old  stones,  which  were  so  deeply  loved 
and  so  admirably  rendered  by  our  lost  Prout,  are  the  pictu- 
resque elements  of  the  architecture  : the  grotesque  ones  are 
those  which  are  not  produced  by  the  working  of  nature  and 
of  time,  but  exclusively  by  the  fancy  of  man  ; and,  as  also  for 
the  most  part  by  his  indolent  and  uncultivated  fancy,  they  are 
always,  in  some  degree,  wanting  in  grandeur,  unless  the  pict- 
uresque element  be  united  with  them. 

§ xxxviii.  3.  Inordinate  play.  The  reader  will  have  some 
difficulty,  I fear,  in  keeping  clearly  in  his  mind  the  various 
divisions  of  our  subject ; but,  when  he  has  once  read  the 
chapter  through,  he  will  see  their  places  and  coherence.  We 
have  next  to  consider  the  expression  throughout  of  the  minds 
of  men  who  indulge  themselves  in  unnecessary  play.  It  is 
evident  that  a large  number  of  these  men  will  be  more  refined 
and  more  highly  educated  than  those  who  only  play  neces- 
sarily ; the  power  of  pleasure-seeking  implies,  in  general,  fort- 
unate circumstances  of  life.  It  is  evident  also  that  their 
play  will  not  be  so  hearty,  so  simple,  or  so  joyful ; and  this  de- 
ficiency of  brightness  will  affect  it  in  proportion  to  its  un- 
necessary and  unlawful  continuance,  until  at  last  it  becomes 
a restless  and  dissatisfied  indulgence  in  excitement,  or  a pain- 
ful delving  after  exhausted  springs  of  pleasure. 

The  art  through  which  this  temper  is  expressed  will,  in  all 
probability,  be  refined  and  sensual, — therefore,  also,  assuredly 
feeble ; and  because,  in  the  failure  of  the  joyful  energy  of  the 


136 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


mine],  there  will  fail,  also,  its  perceptions  and  its  sympathies, 
it  will  be  entirely  deficient  in  expression  of  character,  and 
acuteness  of  thought,  but  will  be  peculiarly  restless,  manifest- 
ing its  desire  for  excitement  in  idle  changes  of  subject  and 
purpose.  Incapable  of  true  imagination,  it  will  seek  to  sup- 
ply its  place  by  exaggerations,  incoherencies,  and  monstrosi- 
ties ; and  the  form  of  the  grotesque  to  which  it  gives  rise  will 
be  an  incongruous  chain  of  hackneyed  graces,  idly  thrown 
together, — prettinesses  or  sublimities,  not  of  its  own  invention, 
associated  in  forms  which  will  be  absurd  without  being  fan- 
tastic, and  monstrous  without  being  terrible.  And  because, 
in  the  continual  pursuit  of  pleasure,  men  lose  both  cheerful- 
ness and  charity,  there  will  be  small  hilarity,  but  much  mal- 
ice, in  this  grotesque  ; yet  a weak  malice,  incapable  of  express- 
ing its  own  bitterness,  not  having  grasp  enough  of  truth  to 
become  forcible,  and  exhausting  itself  in  impotent  or  disgust- 
ing caricature. 

§ xxxix.  Of  course,  there  are  infinite  ranks  and  kinds  of 
this  grotesque,  according  to  the  natural  power  of  the  minds 
wfiiich  originate  it,  and  to  the  degree  in  which  they  have  lost 
themselves.  Its  highest  condition  is  that  which  first  developed 
itself  among  the  enervated  Romans,  and  which  was  brought 
to  the  highest  perfection  of  which  it  was  capable,  by  Raphael, 
in  the  arabesques  of  the  Vatican.  It  may  be  generally  de- 
scribed as  an  elaborate  and  luscious  form  of  nonsense.  Its 
lower  conditions  are  found  in  the  common  upholstery  and 
decorations  which,  over  the  whole  of  civilized  Europe,  have 
sprung  from  this  poisonous  root  ; an  artistical  pottage,  com- 
posed of  nymphs,  cupids,  and  satyrs,  with  shreddings  of 
heads  and  paws  of  meek  wild  beasts,  and  nondescript  vege- 
tables. And  the  lowest  of  all  are  those  which  have  not  even 
graceful  models  to  recommend  them,  but  arise  out  of  the 
corruption  of  the  higher  schools,  mingled  with  clownish  or 
bestial  satire,  as  is  the  case  in  the  later  Renaissance  of  Ven- 
ice, which  we  were  above  examining.  It  is  almost  impossible 
to  believe  the  depth  to  which  the  human  mind  can  be  de- 
based in  following  this  species  of  grotesque.  In  a recent  Itah 
ian  garden,  the  favorite  ornaments  frequently  consist  of  stucco* 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


137 


images,  representing,  in  dwarfish  caricature,  the  most  disgust- 
ing types  of  manhood  and  womanhood  which  can  be  found 
amidst  the  dissipation  of  the  modern  drawingroom  ; yet  with- 
out either  veracity  or  humor,  and  dependent,  for  whatever  in- 
terest they  possess,  upon  simple  grossness  of  expression  and 
absurdity  of  costume.  Grossness,  of  one  kind  or  another,  is, 
indeed,  an  unfailing  characteristic  of  the  style  ; either  latent,’ 
as  in  the  refined  sensuality  of  the  more  graceful  arabesques, 
or,  in  the  worst  examples,  manifested  in  every  species  of  ob- 
scene conception  and  abominable  detail.  In  the  head,  de- 
scribed in  the  opening  of  this  chapter,  at  Santa  Maria  For- 
mosa, the  teeth  are  represented  as  decayed. 

§ xl.  4.  The  minds  of  the  fourth  class  of  men  who  do  not 
play  at  all,  are  little  likely  to  find  expression  in  any  trivial 
form  of  art,  except  in  bitterness  of  mockery  ; and  this  char- 
acter at  once  stamps  the  work  in  which  it  appears,  as  belong- 
ing to  the  class  of  terrible,  rather  than  of  playful,  grotesque. 
We  have,  therefore,  now  to  examine  the  state  of  mind  which 
gave  rise  to  this  second  and  more  interesting  branch  of  imag- 
inative  work. 

§ xli.  Two  great  and  principal  passions  are  evidently  ap- 
pointed  by  the  Deity  to  rule  the  life  of  man  ; namely,  the  love 
£4  God,  and  the  fear  of  sin,  and  of  its  companion — Death. 
How  many  motives  we  have  for  Love,  how  much  there  is 
m the  universe  to  kindle  our  admiration  and  to  claim  our 
gratitude,  there  are,  happily,  multitudes  among  us  who  both 
feel  and  teach.  But  it  has  not,  I think,  been  sufficiently  con- 
sidered how  evident,  throughout  the  system  of  creation,  is  the 
purpose  of  God  that  we  should  often  be  affected  by  Fear ; not 
the  sudden,  selfish,  and  contemptible  fear  of  immediate  dan- 
ger, but  the  fear  which  arises  out  of  the  contemplation  of 
great  powers  in  destructive  operation,  and  generally  from  the 
perception  of  the  presence  of  death.  Nothing  appears  to  me 
more  remarkable  than  the  array  of  scenic  magnificence  by 
which  the  imagination  is  appalled,  in  myriads  of  instances, 
w len  the  actual  danger  is  comparatively  small ; so  that  the 
utmost  possible  impression  of  awe  shall  be  produced  upon  the 
minds  of  all,  though  direct  suffering  is  inflicted  upon  few 


138 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


Consider,  for  instance,  the  moral  effect  of  a single  thunder* 
storm.  Perhaps  two  or  three  persons  may  be  struck  dead 
within  the  space  of  a hundred  square  miles  ; and  their  deaths, 
unaccompanied  by  the  scenery  of  the  storm,  would  produce 
little  more  than  a momentary  sadness  in  the  busy  hearts  of 
living  men.  But  the  preparation  for  the  Judgment  by  all 
that  mighty  gathering  of  clouds  ; by  the  questioning  of  the 
forest  leaves,  in  their  terrified  stillness,  which  way  the  yrinds 
shall  go  forth  ; by  the  murmuring  to  each  other,  deep  in  the 
distance,  of  the  destroying  angels  before  they  draw  forth  their 
swords  of  fire  ; by  the  march  of  the  funeral  darkness  in  the 
midst  of  the  noon-day,  and  the  rattling  of  the  dome  of  heaven 
beneath  the  chariot-wheels  of  death  ; — on  how  many  minds  do 
not  these  produce  an  impression  almost  as  great  as  the  actual 
witnessing  of  the  fatal  issue  ! and  how  strangely  are  the  expres- 
sions of  the  threatening  elements  fitted  to  the  apprehension 
of  the  human  soul ! The  lurid  color,  the  long,  irregular,  con- 
vulsive sound,  the  ghastly  shapes  of  flaming  and  heaving 
cloud,  are  all  as  true  and  faithful  in  their  appeal  to  our  in- 
stinct of  danger,  as  the  moaning  or  wailing  of  the  human 
voice  itself  is  to  our  instinct  of  pity.  It  is  not  a reasonable 
calculating  terror  which  they  awake  in  us  ; it  is  no  matter 
that  we  count  distance  by  seconds,  and  measure  probability  by 
averages.  That  shadow  of  the  thunder-cloud  will  still  do  its 
work  upon  our  hearts,  and  we  shall  watch  its  passing  away  as 
if  we  stood  upon  the  threshing-floor  of  Araunah. 

§ xlii.  And  this  is  equally  the  case  with  respect  to  all  the 
other  destructive  phenomena  of  the  universe.  From  the 
mightiest  of  them  to  the  gentlest,  from  the  earthquake  to  the 
summer  shower,  it  will  be  found  that  they  are  attended  by 
certain  aspects  of  threatening,  which  strike  terror  into  the 
hearts  of  multitudes  more  numerous  a thousandfold  than  those 
who  actually  suffer  from  the  ministries  of  judgment ; and 
that,  besides  the  fearfulness  of  these  immediately  dangerous 
phenomena,  there  is  an  occult  and  subtle  horror  belonging  to 
many  aspects  of  the  creation  around  us,  calculated  often  to  fill 
us  with  serious  thought,  even  in  our  times  of  quietness  and 
peace.  I understand  not  the  most  dangerous,  because  most 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


139 


attractive  form  of  modern  infidelity,  which,  pretending  to 
exalt  the  beneficence  of  the  Deity,  degrades  it  into  a reckless 
infinitude  of  mercy,  and  blind  obliteration  of  the  work  of  sin  • 
and  which  does  this  chiefly  by  dwelling  on  the  manifold  ap- 
pearances of  God’s  kindness  on  the  face  of  creation.  Such 
kindness  is  indeed  everywhere  and  always  visible ; but  not 
alone.  Wrath  and  threatening  are  invariably  mingled  with 
the  love ; and  in  the  utmost  solitudes  of  nature,  the  existence 
of  Hell  seems  to  me  as  legibly  declared  by  a thousand  spiritual 
utterances,  as  that  of  Heaven.  It  is  well  for  us  to  dwell  with 
thankfulness  on  the  unfolding  of  the  flower,  and  the  falling  of 
the  dew,  and  the  sleep  of  the  green  fields  in  the  sunshine ; but 
the  blasted  trunk,  the  barren  rock,  the  moaning  of  the  bleak 
winds,  the  roar  of  the  black,  perilous,  merciless  whirlpools  of 
the  mountain  streams,  the  solemn  solitudes  of  moors  and  seas 
the  continual  fading  of  all  beauty  into  darkness,  and  of  all 
strength  into  dust,  have  these  no  language  for  us  ? We  may 
seek  to  escape  their  teaching  by  reasonings  touching  the  good 
which  is  wrought  out  of  all  evil;  but  it  is  vain  sophistry. 
The  good  succeeds  to  the  evil  as  day  succeeds  the  night  but 
so  also  the  evil  to  the  good.  Gerizim  and  Ebal,  birth  and 
death,  light  and  darkness,  heaven  and  hell,  divide  the  existence 
of  man,  and  his  Futurity.* 

§ xliii  And  because  the  thoughts  of  the  choice  we  have  to 
make  between  these  two,  ought  to  rule  us  continually,  not  so 
much  in  our  own  actions  (for  these  should,  for  the  most  part 
be  governed  by  settled  habit  and  principle)  as  in  our  manner- 
of  regarding  the  lives  of  other  men,  and  our  own  responsi- 
bihties  with  respect  to  them ; therefore,  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  healthiest  state  into  which  the  human  mind  can  be 
brought  is  that  which  is  capable  of  the  greatest  love,  and  the 
greatest  awe : and  this  we  are  taught  even  in  our  times  of 

°f  fG°d  ’>  however>  ah™.'’s  shown  by  the  predominance, 

evil  Th  ’ °f  gT1’  111  the  end  ; but  never  the  annihilation  of 
evil  The  modern  doubts  of  eternal  punishment  are  not  so  much  the 

IT  benevolence  as  of  feeble  powers  of  reasoning  Every 

the  afdlmtS  that  G°d  brings  finite  good  out  of  finite  evil.  §Why  uot 
therefore,  infinite  good  out  of  infinite  evil  » ' 


140 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


rest ; for  when  our  minds  are  rightly  in  tone,  the  merely 
pleasurable  excitement  which  they  seek  with  most  avidity  is 
that  which  rises  out  of  the  contemplation  of  beauty  or  of  ter- 
ribleness.  We.  thirst  for  both,  and,  according  to  the  height 
and  tone  of  our  feeling,  desire  to  see  them  in  noble  or  inferior 
forms.  Thus  there  is  a Divine  beauty,  and  a terribleness  or 
sublimity  coequal  with  it  in  rank,  which  are  the  subjects  of 
the  highest  art ; and  there  is  an  inferior  or  ornamental 
beauty,  and  an  inferior  terribleness  coequal  with  it  in  rank, 
which  are  the  subjects  of  grotesque  art.  And  the  state  of 
mind  in  which  the  terrible  form  of  the  grotesque  is  developed, 
is  that  which  in  some  irregular  manner,  dwells  upon  certain 
conditions  of  terribleness,  into  the  complete  depth  of  which 
it  does  not  enter  for  the  time. 

§ xliv.  Now  the  things  which  are  the  proper  subjects  of 
human  fear  are  twofold  ; those  which  have  the  power  of 
Death,  and  those  which  have  the  nature  of  Sin.  Of  which 
there  are  many  ranks,  greater  or  less  in  power  and  vice,  from 
the  evil  angels  themselves  down  to  the  serpent  which  is  their 
type,  and  which  though  of  a low  and  contemptible  class,  ap- 
pears to  unite  the  deathful  and  sinful  natures  in  the  most 
clearly  visible  and  intelligible  form  ; for  there  is  nothing  else 
which  we  know,  of  so  small  strength  and  occupying  so  unim- 
portant a place  in  the  economy  of  creation,  which  yet  is  so 
mortal  and  so  malignant.  It  is,  then,  on  these  two  classes  of 
objects  that  the  mind  fixes  for  its  excitement,  in  that  mood 
which  gives  rise  to  the  terrible  grotesque  ; and  its  subject  will 
be  found  always  to  unite  some  expression  of  vice  and  danger, 
but  regarded  in  a peculiar  temper  ; sometimes  (a)  of  prede- 
termined or  involuntary  apathy,  sometimes  (b)  of  mockery, 
sometimes  (c)  of  diseased  and  ungoverned  imaginativeness. 

§ xlv.  For  observe,  the  difficulty  which,  as  I above  stated, 
exists  in  distinguishing  the  playful  from  the  terrible  grotesque 
arises  out  of  this  cause  ; that  the  mind,  under*  certain  phases 
of  excitement,  plays  with  terror,  and  summons  images  which, 
if  it  were  in  another  temper,  would  be  awful,  but  of  which, 
either  in  weariness  or  in  irony,  it  refrains  for  the  time  to 
acknowledge  the  true  terribleness.  And  the  mode  in  which 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


141 


this  refusal  takes  place  distinguishes  the  noble  from  the  igno- 
ble grotesque.  For  the  master  of  the  noble  grotesque  knows 
the  depth  of  all  at  which  he  seems  to  mock,  and  would  feel 
it  at  another  time,  or  feels  it  in  a certain  undercurrent  of 
thought  even  while  he  jests  with  it ; but  the  workman  of  the 
ignoble  grotesque  can  feel  and  understand  nothing,  and  mocks 
at  all  things  with  the  laughter  of  the  idiot  and  the  cretin. 

To  work  out  this  distinction  completely  is  the  chief  diffi- 
culty m our  present  inquiry ; and,  in  order  to  do  so,  let  us 
consider  the  above-named  three  conditions  of  mind  in  succes- 
sion, with  relation  to  objects  of  terror. 

§ xlvi.  (a).  Involuntary  or  predetermined  apathy.  We 
saw  above  that  the  grotesque  was  produced,  chiefly  in  subor- 
dinate or  ornamental  art,  by  rude,  and  in  some  degree  unedu- 
cated men,  and  in  their  times  of  rest.  At  such  times,  and  in 
such  subordinate  work,  it  is  impossible  that  they  should  rep- 
resent any  solemn  or  terrible  subject  with  a full  and  serious 
entrance  into  its  feeling.  It  is  not  in  the  languor  of  a leisure 
hour  that  a man  will  set  his  whole  soul  to  conceive  the  means 
of  representing  some  important  truth,  nor  to  the  projecting 
angle  of  a timber  bracket  that  he  would  trust  its  represen- 
tation, if  conceived.  And  yet,  in  this  languor,  and  in  this 
trivial  work,  he  must  find  some  expression  of  the  serious  part 
of  his  soul,  of  what  there  is  within  him  capable  of  awe,  as  well 
as  of  love  The  more  noble  the  man  is,  the  more  impossible 
it  will  be  for  lnm  to  confine  his  thoughts  to  mere  loveliness 
and  that  of  a low  order.  Were  his  powers  and  his  time  un- 
limited, so  that,  like  Fra,  Angelico,  he  could  paint  the  Sera- 
phim, m that  order  of  beauty  he  could  find  contentment 
bringing  down  heaven  to  earth.  But  by  the  conditions  of  his 
,.emg’  by,us  hard-worked  life,  by  his  feeble  powers  of  execu- 
tion by  the  meanness  of  his  employment  and  the  languor  of 
Ins  heart,  he  is  bound  down  to  earth.  It  is  the  world’s  work  • 
that  he  is  doing,  and  world’s  work  is  not  to  be  done  without 
tear.  And  whatever  there  is  of  deep  and  eternal  conscious- 
ness within  lnm,  thrilling  his  mind  with  the  sense  of  the  pres- 
ence  of  sin  and  death  around  him,  must  be  expressed  in  that 
s lght  work,  and  feeble  way,  come  of  it  what  will.  He  cannot 


142  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

forget  it,  among  all  that  he  sees  of  beautiful  in  nature  ; hs 
may  not  bury  himself  among  the  leaves  of  the  violet  on  the 
rocks,  and  of  the  lily  in  the  glen,  and  twine  out  of  them  gar- 
lands of  perpetual  gladness.  He  sees  more  in  the  earth  than 

these, misery  and  wrath,  and  discordance,  and  danger,  and 

all  the  work  of  the  dragon  and  his  angels  ; this  he  sees  with 
too  deep  feeling  ever  to  forget.  And  though  when  he  returns 
to  his  idle  work, — it  may  be  to  gild  the  letters  upon  the  page, 
or  to  carve  the  timbers  of  the  chamber,  or  the  stones  of  the 
pinnacle,— he  cannot  give  his  strength  of  thought  any  more 
to  the  woe  or  to  the  danger,  there  is  a shadow  of  them  still 
present  with  him : and  as  the  bright  colors  mingle  beneath 
his  touch,  and  the  fair  leaves  and  flowers  grow  at  his  bidding, 
strange  horrors  and  phantasms  rise  by  their  side  ; grisly 
beasts  and  venomous  serpents,  and  spectral  fiends  and  name- 
less inconsistencies  of  ghastly  life,  rising  out  of  things  most 
beautiful,  and  fading  back  into  them  again,  as  the  harm  and 
the  horror  of  life  do  out  of  its  happiness.  He  has  seen  these 
things  ; he  wars  with  them  daily ; he  cannot  but  give  them 
their  part  in  his  work,  though  in  a state  of  comparative 
apathy  to  them  at  the  time.  He  is  but  carving  and  gilding, 
and  must  not  turn  aside  to  weep  ; but  he  knows  that  hell  is 
burning  on,  for  all  that,  and  the  smoke  of  it  withers  his  oak- . 

1g3iV6S 

§ xlvii.  Now,  the  feelings  which  give  rise  to  the  false  or 
ignoble  grotesque,  are  exactly  the  reverse  of  these.  In  the , 
true  grotesque,  a man  of  naturally  strong  feeling  is  accidentally 
or  resolutely  apathetic  ; in  the  false  grotesque,  a man  naturally 
apathetic  is  forcing  himself  into  temporary  excitement.  The 
horror  which  is  expressed  by  the  one,  comes  upon  him  whether 
he  will  or  not ; that  which  is  expressed  by  the  other,  is  sought 
out  by  him,  and  elaborated  by  his  art.  And  therefore,  also, , 
because  the  fear  of  the  one  is  true,  and  of  true  things,  however 
fantastic  its  expression  may  be,  there  will  be  reality  in  it,  and 
force  It  is  not  a manufactured  terribleness,  whose  authoi, 
when  he  had  finished  it,  knew  not  if  it  would  terrify  any  one 
else  or  not : but  it  is  a terribleness  taken  from  the  life  ; a 
spectre  which  the  workman  indeed  saw,  and  which,  as  it  ap- 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


143 


palled  him,  will  appal  us  also.  But  the  other  workman  never 
felt  any  Divine  fear  ; he  never  shuddered  when  he  heard  the 
cry  from  the  burning  towers  of  the  earth, 

“ Yenga  Medusa ; si  lo  farem  di  smalto.” 

He  is  stone  already,  and  needs  no  gentle  hand  laid  upon  his 
eyes  to  save  him. 

§ xlviii.  I do  not  mean  what  I say  in  this  place  to  apply  to 
the  creations  of  the  imagination.  It  is  not  as  the  creating  but 
as  the  seeing  man,  that  we  are  here  contemplating  the  master 
of  the  true  grotesque.  It  is  because  the  dreadfulness  of  the 
universe  around  him  weighs  upon  his  heart,  that  his  work  is 
wild  ; and  therefore  through  the  whole  of  it  we  shall  find  the 
evidence  of  deep  insight  into  nature.  His  beasts  and  birds, 
however  monstrous,  will  have  profound  relations  with  the  true. 
He  may  be  an  ignorant  man,  and  little  acquainted  with  the 
laws  of  nature  ; he  is  certainly  a busy  man,  and  has  not  much 
time  to  watch  nature  ; but  he  never  saw  a serpent  cross  his 
path,  nor  a bird  flit  across  the  sky,  nor  a lizard  bask  upon  a 
stone,  without  learning  so  much  of  the  sublimity  and  inner 
nature  of  each  as  will  not  suffer  him  thenceforth  to  conceive 
them  coldly.  He  may  not  be  able  to  carve  plumes  or  scales 
well ; but  his  creatures  will  bite  and  fly,  for  all  that.  The  ig- 
noble workman  is  the  very  reverse  of  this.  He  never  felt, 
never  looked  at  nature ; and  if  he  endeavor  to  imitate  the 
work  of  the  other,  all  his  touches  will  be  made  at  random, 
and  all  his  extravagances  will  be  ineffective  ; he  may  knit 
brows,  and  twist  lips,  and  lengthen  beaks,  and  sharpen  teeth, 
but  it  will  be  all  in  vain.  He  may  make  his  creatures  disgust- 
ing, but  never  fearful. 

§ xlix.  There  is,  however,  often  another  cause  of  difference 
than  this.  The  true  grotesque  being  the  expression  of  the  re- 
pose or  play  or  a serious  mind,  there  is  % false  grotesque  op- 
posed to  it,  which  is  the  result  of  the  full  exertion  of  & frivo- 
lous one.  There  is  much  grotesque  which  is  wrought  out  with 
exquisite  care  and  pains,  and  as  much  labor  given  to  it  as  if 
it  were  of  the  noblest  subject ; so  that  the  workman  is  evi- 
dently no  longer  apathetic,  and  has  no  excuse  for  unconnect- 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


141 

ednessof  thought,  or  sudden  unreasonable  fear.  If  he  awakens 
horror  now,  it  ought  to  be  in  some  truly  sublime  form.  His 
strength  is  in  his  work ; and  he  must  not  give  way  to  sudden 
humor,  and  fits  of  erratic  fancy.  If  he  does  so,  it  must  be 
because  his  mind  is  naturally  frivolous,  or  is  for  the  time  de- 
graded into  the  deliberate  pursuit  of  frivolity.  And  herein 
lies  the  real  distinction  between  the  base  grotesque  of  Raphael 
and  the  Renaissance,  above  alluded  to,  and  the  true  Gothic 
grotesque.  Those  grotesques  or  arabesques  of  the  Vatican, 
and  other  such  work,  which  have  become  the  patterns  of  or- 
namentation in  modern  times,  are  the  fruit  of  great  minds  de- 
graded to  base  objects.  The  care,  skill,  and  science,  applied 
to  the  distribution  of  the  leaves,  and  the  drawing  of  the  fig- 
ures, are  intense,  admirable,  and  accurate  ; therefore,  they 
ought  to  have  produced  a grand  and  serious  work,  not  a 
tissue  of  nonsense.  If  we  can  draw  the  human  head  perfectly, 
and  are  masters  of  its  expression  and  its  beauty,  we  have  no 
business  to  cut  it  off,  and  hang  it  up  by  the  hair  at  the  end 
of  a garland.  If  we  can  draw  the  human  body  in  the  perfec- 
tion of  its  grace  and  movement,  we  have  no  business  to  take 
away  its  limbs,  and  terminate  it  with  a bunch  of  leaves.  Or 
rather  our  doing  so  -will  imply  that  there  is  something  wrong 
with  us  ; that,  if  we  can  consent  to  use  our  best  powers  for 
such  base  and  vain  trifling,  there  must  be  something  wanting 
in  the  powers  themselves  ; and  that,  however  skilful  we  may 
be,  or  however  learned*  wTe  are  wanting  both  in  the  earnest- 
ness which  can  apprehend  a noble  truth,  and  in  the  thought- 
fulness which  can  feel  a noble  fear.  No  Divine  terror  will 
ever  be  found  in  the  work  of  the  man  who  wastes  a colossal 
strength  in  elaborating  toys  ; for  the  first  lesson  which  that 
terror  is  sent  to  teach  us,  is  the  value  of  the  human  soul,  and 
the  shortness  of  mortal  time. 

§ l.  And  are  we  never,  then,  it  will  be  asked,  to  possess  a 
refined  or  perfect  ornamentation  ? Must  all  decoration  be  the 
work  of  the  ignorant  and  the  rude  ? Not  so  ; but  exactly  in 
proportion  as  the  ignorance  and  rudeness  diminish,  must  the 
ornamentation  become  rational,  and  the  grotesqueness  disap- 
pear. The  noblest  lessons  may  be  taught  in  ornamentation, 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


145 


the  most  solemn  truths  compressed  into  it.  . The  Book  of 
Genesis,  in  all  the  fulness  of  its  incidents,  in  all  the  depth  of 
its  meaning,  is  bound  within  the  leaf-borders  of  the  gates  of 
Ghiberti.  But  Raphael's  arabesque  is  mere  elaborate  idleness. 
It  has  neither  meaning  nor  heart  in  it ; it  is  an  unnatural  and 
monstrous  abortion. 

§ li.  Now,  this  passing  of  the  grotesque  into  higher  art,  as 
the  mind  of  the  workman  becomes  informed  with  better  knowl- 
edge, and  capable  of  more  earnest  exertion,  takes  place  in  two 
ways.  Either,  as  his  power  inceases,  he  devotes  himself  more 
and  more  to  the  beauty  which  he  now  feels  himself  able  to  ex- 
press, and  so  the  grotesqueness  expands,  and  softens  into  the 
beautiful,  as  in  the  above-named  instance  of  the  gates  of  Ghi- 
berti ; or  else,  if  the  mind  of  the  workman  be  naturally  in- 
clined to  gloomy  contemplation,  the  imperfection  or  apathy  of 
his  work  rises  into  nobler  terribleness,  until  we  reach  the 
point  of  the  grotesque  of  Albert  Durer,  where,  every  now  and 
then,  the  playfulness  or  apathy  of  the  painter  passes  into  per- 
fect sublime.  Take  the  Adam  and  Eve,  for  instance.  When 
he  gave  Adam  a bough  to  hold,  with  a parrot  on  it,  and  a 
tablet  hung  to  it,  with  “ Albertus  Durer  Noricus  faciebat, 
1504,’'  thereupon,  his  mind  was  not  in  Paradise.  He  was  half 
in  play,  half  apathetic  with  respect  to  his  subject,  thinking 
how  to  do  his  work  well,  as  a wise  master-graver,  and  how  to 
receive  his  just  reward  of  fame.  Bat  he  rose  into  the  true 
sublime  in  the  head  of  Adam,  and  in  the  profound  truthful- 
ness of  every  creature  that  fills  the  forest.  So  again  in  that 
magnificent  coat  of  arms,  with  the  lady  and  the  satyr,  as  he 
cast  the  fluttering  drapery  hither  and  thither  around  the  hel- 
met, and  wove  the  delicate  crown  upon  the  woman’s  forehead, 
he  wTas  in  a kind  of  play  ; but  there  is  none  in  the  dreadful 
skull  upon  the  shield.  And  in  the  “ Knight  and  Death,”  and 
in  the  dragons  of  the  illustrations  to  the  Apocalypse,  there  is 
neither  play  nor  apathy  ; but  their  grotesque  is  of  the  ghastly 
kind  which  best  illustrates  the  nature  of  death  and  sin.  And 
this  leads  us  to  the  consideration  of  the  second  state  of  mind 
out  of  which  the  noble  grotesque  is  developed  ; that  is  to  say. 
the  temper  of  mockery. 

Vol.  III.— 10 


146 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


§ lii.  (b).  Mockery,  or  Satire.  In  the  former  part  of  this 
chapter,  when  I spoke  of  the  kinds  of  art  which  were  produced 
in  the  recreation  of  the  lower  orders,  I only  spoke  of  forms  of 
ornament,  not  of  the  expression  of  satire  or  humor.  But  it 
seems  probable,  that  nothing  is  so  refreshing  to  the  vulgar 
mind  as  some  exercise  of  this  faculty,  more  especially  on  the 
failings  of  their  superiors  ; and  that,  wherever  the  lower 
orders  are  allowed  to  express  themselves  freely,  we  shall  find 
humor,  more  or  less  caustic,  becoming  a principal  feature  in 
their  work.  The  classical  and  Renaissance  manufacturers  of 
modern  times  having  silenced  the  independent  language  of 
the  operative,  his  humor  and  satire  pass  away  in  the  word-wit 
which  has  of  late  become  the  especial  study  of  the  group  of 
authors  headed  by  Charles  Dickens  ; all  this  power  was  for- 
merly thrown  into  noble  art,  and  became  permanently  ex- 
pressed in  the  sculptures  of  the  cathedral.  It  was  never 
thought  that  there  was  anything  discordant  or  improper  in 
such  a position  : for  the  builders  evidently  felt  very  deeply  a 
truth  of  which,  in  modern  times,  we  are  less  cognizant ; that 
folly  and  sin  are,  to  a certain  extent,  synonymous,  and  that  it 
would  be  well  for  mankind  in  general,  if  all  could  be  made  to 
feel  that  wickedness  is  as  contemptible  as  it  is  hateful.  So 
that  the  vices  were  permitted  to  be  represented  under 
the  most  ridiculous  forms,  and  all  the  coarsest  wit  of  the 
workman  to  be  exhausted  in  completing  the  degradation  of 
the  creatures  supposed  to  be  subjected  to  them. 

§ Liii.  Nor  were  even  the  supernatural  powers  of  evil 
exempt  from  this  species  of  satire.  For  with  whatever  hatred 
or  horror  the  evil  angels  were  regarded,  it  was  one  of  the 
conditions  of  Christianity  that  they  should  also  be  looked 
upon  as  vanquished  ; and  this  not  merely  in  their  great  com- 
bat with  the  King  of  Saints,  but  in  daily  and  hourly  combats 
with  the  weakest  of  His  servants.  In  proportion  to  the  nar- 
rowness of  the  powers  of  abstract  conception  in  the  workman, 
the  nobleness  of  the  idea  of  spiritual  nature  diminished,  and 
the  traditions  of  the  encounters  of  men  with  fiends  in  daily 
temptations  were  imagined  with  less  terrific  circumstances, 
until  the  agencies  which  in  such  warfare  were  almost  always 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


14? 


represented  as  vanquished  with  disgrace,  became,  at  last,  as 
much  the  objects  of  contempt  as  of  terror. 

The  superstitions  which  represented  the  devil  as  assuming 
various  contemptible  forms  of  disguises  in  order  to  accomplish 
his  purposes  aided  this  gradual  degradation  of  conception 
and  directed  the  study  of  the  workman  to  the  most  strange 
and  ugly  conditions  of  animal  form,  until  at  last,  even  in  the 
most  serious  subjects,  the  fiends  are  oftener  ludicrous  than 
terrible.  Nor,  indeed,  is  this  altogether  avoidable,  for  it  is 
not  possible  to  express  intense  wickedness  without  some  con- 
dition of  degradation.  Malice,  subtlety,  and  pride,  in  their 
extreme,  cannot  be  written  upon  noble  forms ; and  I am  aware 
of  no  effort  to  represent  the  Satanic  mind  in  the  angelic  form 
which  has  succeeded  in  painting.  Milton  succeeds  only  be- 
cause he  separately  describes  the  movements  of  the  mind,  and 
therefore  leaves  himself  at  liberty  to  make  the  form  heroic  ; 
but  that  form  is  never  distinct  enough  to  be  painted.  Dante’ 
who  will  not  leave  even  external  forms  obscure,  degrades  them 
before  he  can  feel  them  to  be  demoniacal ; so  also  John  Bun- 
yan  • both  of  them,  I think,  having  firmer  faith  than  Milton’s 
m their  own  creations,  and  deeper  insight  into  the  nature  of 
sm.  Milton  makes  Ins  fiends  too  noble,  and  misses  the  foul- 
ness, inconstancy,  and  fury  of  wickedness.  His  Satan  pos- 
sesses some  virtues,  not  the  less  virtues  for  being  applied  to 
evil  purpose.  Courage,  resolution,  patience,  deliberation  in 
council,  this  latter  being  eminently  a wise  and  holy  character 
as  opposed  to  the  “Insania”  of  excessive  sin  : and  all  this  if 
not  a shallow  and  false,  is  a smooth  and  artistical,  conception. 
On  the  other  hand,  I have  always  felt  that  there  was  a peculiar 
grandeur  m the  indescribable,  ungovernable  fury  of  Dante’s 
ends,  ever  shortening  its  own  powers,  and  disappointing  its 
own  purposes  ; the  deaf,  blind,  speechless,  unspeakable  rage, 
fierce  as  the  lightning,  but  erring  from  its  mark  or  turning 
senselessly  against  itself,  and  still  further  debased  by  foulness 
,7  f0r“anf  actlon-  Something  is  indeed  to  be  allowed  for 
the  rude  feelings  of  the  time,  but  I believe  all  such  men  as 
Dante  are  sent  into  the  world  at  the  time  when  they  can  do 
en  work  best ; and  that,  it  being  appointed  for  him  to  give 


148 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


to  mankind  tlie  most  vigorous  realization  possible  both  of  Hell 
and  Heaven,  he  was  born  both  in  the  country  and  at  the  time 
which  furnished  the  most  stern  opposition  of  Horror  and 
Beauty,  and  permitted  it  to  be  written  in  the  clearest  terms0 
And,  therefore,  though  there  are  passages  in  the  “ Inferno  59 
which  it  would  be  impossible  for  any  poet  now  to  write,  I look 
upon  it  as  all  the  more  perfect  for  them.  For  there  can  be  no 
question  but  that  one  characteristic  of  excessive  vice  is  inde- 
cency, a general  baseness  in  its  thoughts  and  acts  concerning 
the  body,*  and  that  the  full  portraiture  of  it  cannot  be  given 
without  marking,  and  that  in  the  strongest  lines,  this  tendency 
to  corporeal  degradation  ; which,  in  the  time  of  Dante,  could 
be  done  frankly,  but  cannot  now.  And,  therefore,  I think  the 
twenty-first  and  twenty-second  books  of  the  “ Inferno  ” the 
most  perfect  portraitures  of  fiendish  nature  which  we  possess  ; 
and  at  the  same  time,  in  their  mingling  of  the  extreme  of 
horror  (for  it  seems  to  me  that  the  silent  swiftness  of  the  first 
demon,  “ con  Y ali  aperte  e sovra  i pie  leggiero,”  cannot  be 
surpassed  in  dreadfulness)  with  ludicrous  actions  and  images, 
they  present  the  most  perfect  instances  with  which  I am 
acquainted  of  the  terrible  grotesque.  But  the  whole  of  the 
“Inferno  99  is  full  of  this  grotesque,  as  well  as  the  “Faerie 
Queen  ; 95  and  these  two  poems,  together  with  the  works  of 
Albert  Durer,  will  enable  the  reader  to  study  it  in  its  noblest 
forms,  without  reference  to  Gothic  cathedrals. 

§ liv.  Now,  just  as  there  are  base  and  noble  conditions  of 
the  apathetic  grotesque,  so  also  are  there  of  this  satirical  gro- 
tesque. The  condition  which  might  be  mistaken  for  it  is  that 
above  described  as  resulting  from  the  malice  of  men  given  to 
pleasure,  and  in  which  the  grossness  and  foulness  are  in  the 
workman  as  much  as  in  his  subject,  so  that  he  chooses  to  repre- 
sent vice  and  disease  rather  than  virtue  and  beauty,  having  his 
chief  delight  in  contemplating  them  ; though  he  still  mocks  at 
them  with  such  dull  wit  as  may  be  in  him,  because,  as  Young 
has  said  most  truly, 

“ Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a fool.” 

* Let  tlie  reader  examine,  with  special  reference  to  this  subject,  the 
general  character  of  the  language  of  Iago. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


149 


§ lv.  Now  it  is  easy  to  distinguish  this  grotesque  from  its 
noble  counterpart,  by  merely  observing  whether  any  forms  of 
beauty  or  dignity  are  mingled  with  it  or  not ; for,  of  course, 
the  noble  grotesque  is  only  employed  by  its  master  for  good 
purposes,  and  to  contrast  with  beauty  : but  the  base  workman 
cannot  conceive  anything  but  what  is  base  ; and  there  will  be 
no  loveliness  in  any  part  of  his  work,  or,  at  the  best,  a loveli- 
ness measured  by  line  and  rule,  and  dependent  on  legal  shapes 
of  feature.  But,  without  resorting  to  this  test,  and  merely  by 
examining  the  ugly  grotesque  itself,  it  will  be  found  that,  if  it 
belongs  to  the  base  school,  there  will  be,  first,  no  Horror  in  it ; 
secondly,  no  Nature  in  it ; and,  thirdly,  no  Mercy  in  it. 

§ lvl  I say,  first,  no  Horror.  For  the  base  soul  has  no 
fear  of  sin,  and  no  hatred  of  it  : and,  however  it  may  strive  to 
make  its  work  terrible,  there  will  be  no  genuineness  in  the 
fear  ; the  utmost  it  can  do  will  be  to  make  its  work  disgusting. 

Secondly,  there  will  be  no  Nature  in  it.  It  appears  to  be 
one  of  the  ends  proposed  by  Providence  in  the  appointment 
of  the  forms  of  the  brute  creation,  that  the  various  vices  to 
which  mankind  are  liable  should  bo  severally  expressed  in 
them  so  distinctly  and  clearly  as  that  men  could  not  but  under- 
stand the  lesson  ; while  yet  these  conditions  of  vice  might,  in 
the  inferior  animal,  be  observed  without  the  disgust  and  hatred 
which  the  same  vices  would  excite,  if  seen  in  men,  and  might 
be  associated  with  features  of  interest  which  would  otherwise 
attract  and  reward  contemplation.  Thus,  ferocity,  cunning, 
sloth,  discontent,  gluttony,  uncleanness,  and  cruelty  are  seen, 
each  in  its  extreme,  in  various  animals  ; and  are  so  vigorously 
expressed,  that  when  men  desire  to  indicate  the  same  vices  in 
connexion  with  human  forms,  they  can  do  it  no  better  than 
by  borrowing  here  and  there  the  features  of  animals.  And 
when  the  workman  is  thus  led  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
animal  kingdom,  finding  therein  the  expressions  of  vice  which 
he  needs,  associated  with  power,  and  nobleness,  and  freedom 
from  disease,  if  his  mind  be  of  right  tone  he  becomes  inter- 
ested in  this  new  study  ; and  all  noble  grotesque  is,  therefore, 
full  of  the  most  admirable  rendering  of  animal  character.  Bufc 
the  ignoble  workman  is  capable  of  no  interest  of  this  kind ; 


150 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


and,  being  too  dull  to  appreciate,  and  too  idle  to  execute,  the 
subtle  and  wonderful  lines  on  which  the  expression  of  the 
lower  animal  depends,  he  contents  himself  with  vulgar  exag- 
geration, and  leaves  his  work  as  false  as  it  is  monstrous,  a mass 
of  blunt  malice  and  obscene  ignorance. 

§ lvii.  Lastly,  there  will  be  no  Mercy  in  it.  Wherever 
the  satire  of  the  noble  grotesque  fixes  upon  human  nature,  it 
does  so  with  much  sorrow  mingled  amidst  its  indignation  : in 
its  highest  forms  there  is  an  infinite  tenderness,  like  that  of 
the  fool  in  Lear  ; and  even  in  its  more  heedless  or  bitter  sar- 
casm, it  never  loses  sight  altogether  of  the  better  nature  of 
what  it  attacks,  nor  refuses  to  acknowledge  its  redeeming  or 
pardonable  features.  But  the  ignoble  grotesque  has  no  pity  : 
it  rejoices  in  iniquity,  and  exists  only  to  slander. 

§ lviii.  I have  not  space  to  follow  out  the  various  forms  of 
transition  which  exist  between  the  two  extremes  of  great 
and  base  in  the  satirical  grotesque.  The  reader  must  always 
remember,  that,  although  there  is  an  infinite  distance  between 
the  best  and  worst,  in  this  kind  the  interval  is  filled  by  endless 
conditions  more  or  less  inclining  to  the  evil  or  the  good  ; im- 
purity and  malice  stealing  gradually  into  the  nobler  forms, 
and  invention  and  wit  elevating  the  lower,  according  to  the 
countless  minglings  of  the  elements  of  the  human  soul. 

§ lix.  (c).  Ungovernableness  of  the  imagination.  The 
reader  is  always  to  keep  in  mind  that  if  the  objects  of  horror, 
in  which  the  terrible  grotesque  finds  its  materials,  were  con- 
templated in  their  true  light,  and  with  the  entire  energy  of 
the  soul,  they  would  cease  to  be  grotesque,  and  become  alto- 
gether sublime  ; and  that  therefore  it  is  some  shortening  of 
the  power,  or  the  will,  of  contemplation,  and  some  conse- 
quent distortion  of  the  terrible  image  in  which  the  grotesque^ 
ness  consists.  Now  this  distortion  takes  place,  if  was  above 
asserted,  in  three  ways  : either  through  apathy,  satire,  or 
ungovernableness  of  imagination.  It  is  this  last  cause  of  the 
grotesque  which  we  have  finally  to  consider  ; namely,  the  error 
and  wildness  of  the  mental  impressions,  caused  by  fear  operat 
ing  upon  strong  powers  of  imagination,  or  by  the  failure  of  the 
human  faculties  in  the  endeavor  to  grasp  the  highest  truths. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


151 


§ lx.  The  grotesque  which  comes  to  all  men  in  a disturbed 
dream  is  the  most  intelligible  example  of  this  kind,  but  also 
the  most  ignoble  ; the  imagination,  in  this  instance,  being 
entirely  deprived  of  all  aid  from  reason,  and  incapable  of  self- 
government.  I believe,  however,  that  the  noblest  forms  of 
imaginative  power  are  also  in  some  sort  ungovernable,  and 
have  in  them  something  of  the  character  of  dreams ; so  that 
the  vision,  of  whatever  kind,  comes  uncalled,  and  will  not 
submit  itself  to  the  seer,  but  conquers  him,  and  forces  him  to 
speak  as  a prophet,  having  no  power  over  his  words  or 
thoughts.*  Only,  if  the  whole  man  be  trained  perfectly,  and 

* This  opposition  of  art  to  inspiration  is  long  and  gracefully  dwelt  upon 
by  Plato,  in  liis  “ Phsedrus,”  using,  in  the  course  of  his  argument,  almost 
the  words  of  St.  Paul : kjWlov  pLapTvpovinv  oi  -jruXaioi  fxauiav  auxppoavi'Tjs 
r)]v  l k Qeov  t r\s  Trap  av^pcoirov  yiyvofxevris  : “It  is  the  testimony  of  the 
ancients,  that  the  madness  which  is  of  God  is  a nobler  thing  than  the  wis- 
dom which  is  of  men  and  again,  “He  who  sets  himself  to  any  work 
with  which  the  Muses  have  to  do,”  (i.  e.  to  any  of  the  fine  arts,)  “ with- 
out madness,  thinking  that  by  art  alone  he  can  do  his  work  sufficiently, 
will  be  found  vain  and  incapable,  and  the  work  of  temperance  and 
rationalism  will  be  thrust  aside  and  obscured  by  that  of  inspiration.  * 
The  passages  to  the  same  effect,  relating  especially  to  poetry,  are  in- 
numerable in  nearly  all  ancient  writers  ; but  in  this  of  Plato,  the  entire 
compass  of  the  fine  arts  is  intended  to  be  embraced. 

No  one  acquainted  with  other  parts  of  my  writings  will  suppose,  me  to 
be  an  advocate  of  idle  trust  in  the  imagination.  But  it  is  in  these  days 
just  as  necessary  to  allege  the  supremacy  of  genius  as  the  necessity  of 
labor ; for  there  never  was,  perhaps,  a period  in  which  the  peculiar  gift 
of  the.  painter  was  so  little  discerned,  in  which  so  many  and  so  vain 
efforts  have  been  made  to  replace  it  by  study  and  toil.  This  has  been 
peculiarly  the  case  with  the  German  school,  and  there  are  few  exhi- 
bitions of  human  error  more  pitiable  than  the  manner  in  which  the 
inferior  members  of  it,  men  originally  and  for  ever  destitute  of  the 
painting  faculty,  force  themselves  into  an  unnatural,  encumbered, 
learned  fructification  of  tasteless  fruit,  and  pass  laborious  lives  in  setting 
obscurely  and  weakly  upon  canvas  the  philosophy,  if  such  it  be,  which 
ten  minutes’  work  of  a strong  man  would  have  put  into  healthy  prac- 
tice, or  plain  words.  I know  not  anything  more  melancholy  than  the 
sight  of  the  huge  German  cartoon,  with  its  objective  side,  and  subjective 
side  ; and  mythological  division,  and  symbolical  division,  and  human 
and  Bivine  division  ; its  allegorical  sense,  and  literal  sense  ; and  ideal 
point  of  view,  and  intellectual  point  of  view  ; its  heroism  of  wrell-made 


152 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


liis  mind  calm,  consistent  and  powerful,  the  vision  which 
comes  to  him  is  seen  as  in  a perfect  mirror,  serenely,  and  in 
consistence  with  the  rational  powers  ; but  if  the  mind  be 
imperfect  and  ill  trained,  the  vision  is  seen  as  in  a broken 
mirror,  with  strange  distortions  and  discrepancies,  all  the  pas- 
sions of  the  heart  breathing  upon  it  in  cross  ripples,  till  hardly 
a trace  of  it  remains  unbroken.  So  that,  strictly  speaking, 
the  imagination  is  never  governed  ; it  is  always  the  ruling 
and  Divine  power  : and  the  rest  of  the  man  is  to  it  only  as  an 
instrument  which  it  sounds,  or  a tablet  on  which  it  writes  ; 
clearly  and  sublimely  if  the  wax  be  smooth  and  the  strings 
true,  grotesquely  and  wildly  if  they  are  strained  and  broken. 
And  thus  the  “ Iliad,”  the  “ Inferno,”  the  “ Pilgrim’s  Prog- 
ress,” the  ■■  Faerie  Queen,”  are  all  of  them  true  dreams  ; only 
the  sleep  of  the  men  to  whom  they  came  was  the  deep,  living 
sleep  which  God  sends,  with  a sacredness  in  it,  as  of  death, 
the  revealer  of  secrets. 

armor  and  knitted  brows  ; its  heroinism  of  graceful  attitude  and  braided 
liair  ; its  inwoven  web  of  sentiment,  and  piety,  and  philosophy,  and 
anatomy,  and  history,  all  profound:  and  twenty  innocent  dashes  of  the 
hand  of  one  God  made  painter,  poor  old  Bassan  or  Bonifazio,  were  worth 
it  all,  and  worth  it  ten  thousand  times  over. 

Not  that  the  sentiment  or  the  philosophy  is  base  in  itself.  They  will 
make  a good  man,  but  they  will  not  make  a good  painter, — no,  nor  the 
millionth  part  of  a painter.  They  would  have  been  good  in  the  work 
and  words  of  daily  life  ; but  they  are  good  for  nothing  in  the  cartoon, 
if  they  are  there  alone.  And  the  worst  result  of  the  system  is  the  in" 
tense  conceit  into  which  it  cultivates  a weak  mind.  Nothing  is  so  hope- 
less, so  intolerable,  as  the  pride  of  a foolish  man  who  lias  passed  through 
a process  of  thinking,  so  as  actually  to  have  found  something  out.  He 
believes  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  found  out  in  the  universe.  Whereas 
the  truly  great  man,  on  whom  the  Revelations  rain  till  they  bear  him 
to  the  earth  with  their  weight,  lays  his  head  in  the  dust,  and  speaks 
thence — often  in  broken  syllables.  Vanity  is  indeed  a very  equally 
divided  inheritance  among  mankind  ; but  I think  that  among  the  first 
persons,  no  emphasis  is  altogether  so  strong  as  that  on  the  German  Ich. 
I was  once  introduced  to  a German  philosopher-painter  before  Tintoret’s 
44  Massacre  of  the  Innocents  ” He  looked  at  it  superciliously,  and  said 
it  “ wanted  to  be  restored.”  He  had  been  himself  several  years  employed 
in  painting  a “Faust”  in  a red  jerkin  and  blue  fire;  which  made 
Tintoret  appear  somewhat  dull  to  him. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


153 


§ lx i.  Now,  observe  in  this  matter,  carefully,  the  difference 
between  a dim  mirror  and  a distorted  one  ; and  do  not  blame 
me  for  pressing  the  analogy  too  far,  for  it  will  enable  me  to 
explain  my  meaning  every  way  more  clearly.  Most  men’s 
minds  are  dim  mirrors,  in  which  all  truth  is  seen,  as  St.  Paul 
tells  us,  darkly  : this  is  the  fault  most  common  and  most  fatal ; 
dulness  of  the  heart  and  mistiness  of  sight,  increasing  to  utter 
hardness  and  blindness ; Satan  breathing  upon  the  glass,  so 
that  if  we  do  not  sweep  the  mist  laboriously  awTay,  it  will  take 
no  image.  But,  even  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  do  this,  we  have 
still  the  distortion  to  fear,  yet  not  to  the  same  extent,  for  we 
can  in  some  sort  allow  for  the  distortion  of  an  image,  if  only 
we  can  see  it  clearly.  And  the  fallen  human  soul,  at  its  best, 
must  be  as  a diminishing  glass,  and  that  a broken  one,  to  the 
mighty  truths  of  the  universe  round  it  ; and  the  wider  the 
scope  of  its  glance,  and  the  vaster  the  truths  into  which  it 
obtains  an  insight,  the  more  fantastic  their  distortion  is  likely 
to  be,  as  the  winds  and  vapors  trouble  the  field  of  the  telescope 
most  when  it  reaches  farthest. 

§ lxii.  Now,  so  far  as  the  truth  is  seen  by  the  imagination  * 
in  its  wholeness  and  quietness,  the  vision  is  sublime  ; but  so 
far  as  it  is  narrowed  and  broken  by  the  inconsistencies  of  the 
human  capacity,  it  becomes  grotesque  : and  it  would  seem  to 
be  rare  that  any  very  exalted  truth  should  be  impressed  on  the 
imagination  without  some  grotesqueness  in  its  aspect,  propor- 
tioned to  the  degree  of  diminution  of  breadth  in  the  grasp 
which  is  given  of  it.  Nearly  all  the  dreams  recorded  in  the 
Bible, — Jacob’s,  Joseph’s,  Pharaoh’s,  Nebuchadnezzar’s, — are 
grotesques  ; and  nearly  the  wdiole  of  the  accessory  scenery  in 
the  books  of  Ezekiel  and  the  Apocalypse.  Thus,  Jacob’s 
dream  revealed  to  him  the  ministry  of  angels  ; but  because 
this  ministry  could  not  be  seen  or  understood  by  him  in  its 
fulness,  it  was  narrowed  to  him  into  a ladder  between  heaven 
and  earth,  which  was  a grotesque.  Joseph’s  two  dreams  were 
evidently  intended  to  be  signs  of  the  steadfastness  of  the 
Divine  purpose  towards  him,  by  possessing  the  clearness  of 

* I have  before  stated  (u  Modern  Painters  ” vol.  ii  ) that  the  first  func- 
tion of  the  imagination  is  the  apprehension  of  ultimate  truth. 


154 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


special  prophecy  ; yet  were  couched  in  such  imagery,  as  not 
to  inform  him  prematurely  of  his  destiny,  and  only  to  he 
understood  after  their  fulfilment.  The  sun,  and  moon,  and 
stars  were  at  the  period,  and  are  indeed  throughout  the  Bible, 
the  symbols  of  high  authority.  It  was  not  revealed  to  Joseph 
that  he  should  be  lord  over  all  Egypt  ; but  the  representation 
of  his  family  by  symbols  of  the  most  magnificent  dominion, 
and  yet  as  subject  to  him,  must  have  been  afterwards  felt  by 
him  as  a distinctly  prophetic  indication  of  his  own  supreme 
powder.  It  wTas  not  revealed  to  him  that  the  occasion  of  his 
brethren’s  special  humiliation  before  him  should  be  their  com- 
ing to  buy  corn  ; but  when  the  event  took  place,  must  he  not 
have  felt  that  there  was  prophetic  purpose  in  the  form  of  the 
sheaves  of  wheat  which  first  imaged  forth  their  subjection  to 
him  ? And  these  twTo  images  of  the  sun  doing  obeisance,  and 
the  sheaves  bowing  down, — narrowed  and  imperfect  intima- 
tions of  great  truth  which  yet  could  not  be  otherwise  con- 
veyed,— are  both  grotesque.  The  kine  of  Pharaoh  eating 
each  other,  the  gold  and  clay  of  Nebuchadnezzar’s  image,  the 
four  beasts  full  of  eyes,  and  other  imagery  of  Ezekiel  and  the 
Apocalypse,  are  grotesques  of  the  same  kind,  on  which  I need 
not  further  insist. 

§ lxiii.  Such  forms,  however,  ought  perhaps  to  have  been 
arranged  under  a separate  head,  as  Symbolical  Grotesque  ; but 
the  element  of  awe  enters  into  them  so  strongly,  as  to  justify, 
for  all  our  present  purposes,  their  being  classed  with  the  other 
varieties  of  terrible  grotesque.  Eor  even  if  the  symbolic 
vision  itself  be  not  terrible,  the  sense  of  what  may  be  veiled 
behind  it  becomes  all  the  more  awTful  in  proportion  to  the 
insignificance  or  strangeness  of  the  sign  itself  ; and,  I believe, 
this  thrill  of  mingled  doubt,  fear,  and  curiosity  lies  at  the  very 
root  of  the  delight  which  mankind  take  in  symbolism.  It  was 
not  an  accidental  necessity  for  the  conveyance  of  truth  by 
pictures  instead  of  words,  which  led  to  its  universal  adoption 
wherever  art  was  on  the  advance  ; but  the  Divine  fear  which 
necessarily  follows  on  the  understanding  that  a thing  is  other 
and  greater  than  it  seems  ; and  which,  it  appears  probable, 
has  been  rendered  peculiarly  attractive  to  the  human  heart. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


155 


because  God  would  have  us  understand  that  this  is  true  not 
of  invented  symbols  merely,  but  of  all  things  amidst  which 
we  live  ; that  there  is  a deeper  meaning  within  them  than  eye 
hath  seen,  or  ear  hath  heard  ; and  that  the  whole  visible  crea- 
tion is  a mere  perishable  symbol  of  things  eternal  and  true. 
It  cannot  but  have  been  sometimes  a subject  of  wonder  with 
thoughtful  men,  how  fondly,  age  after  age,  the  Church  has 
cherished  the  belief  that  the  four  living  creatures  which  sur- 
rounded the  Apocalyptic  throne  were  symbols  of  the  four 
Evangelists,  and  rejoiced  to  use  those  forms  in  its  picture- 
teaching ; that  a calf,  a lion,  an  eagle,  and  a beast  with  a man’s 
face,  should  in  all  ages  have  been  preferred  by  the  Christian 
world,  as  expressive  of  Evangelistic  power  and  inspiration,  to 
the  majesty  of  human  forms ; and  that  quaint  grotesques, 
awkward  and  often  ludicrous  caricatures  even  of  the  animals 
represented,  should  have  been  regarded  by  all  men,  not  only 
with  contentment,  but  with  awe,  and  have  superseded  all  en- 
deavors to  represent  the  characters  and  persons  of  the  Evan- 
gelistic writers  themselves  (except  in  a few  instances,  confined 
principally  to  works  undertaken  without  a definite  religious 
purpose)  ; — this,  I say,  might  appear  more  than  strange  to  us, 
were  it  not  that  we  ourselves  share  the  awe,  and  are  still  satis- 
fied with  the  symbol,  and  that  justly.  For,  whether  we  are 
conscious  of  it  or  not,  there  is  in  our  hearts,  as  we  gaze  upon 
the  brutal  forms  that  have  so  holy  a signification,  an  acknowl- 
edgement that  it  was  not  Matthew,  nor  Mark,  nor  Luke,  nor 
John,  in  whom  the  Gospel  of  Christ  was  unsealed : but  that 
the  invisible  things  of  Him  from  the  beginning  of  the  crea- 
tion are  clearly  seen,  being  understood  by  the  things  that  are 
made  ; that  the  whole  world,  and  all  that  is  therein,  be  it  low 
or  high,  great  or  small,  is  a continual  Gospel ; and  that  as 
the  heathen,  in  their  alienation  from  God,  changed  His  glory 
into  an  image  made  like  unto  corruptible  man,  and  to  birds, 
and  four-footed  beasts,  the  Christian,  in  his  approach  to  God, 
is  to  undo  this  work,  and  to  change  the  corruptible  things 
into  the  image  of  His  glory  ; believing  that  there  is  nothing 
so  base  in  creation,  but  that  our  faith  may  give  it  wings  which 
shall  raise  us  into  companionship  with  heaven ; and  that,  on 


156 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  other  hand,  there  is  nothing  so  great  or  so  goodly  in  crea- 
tion, but  that  it  is  a mean  symbol  of  the  Gospel  of  Christ,  and 
of  the  things  He  has  prepared  for  them  that  love  Him. 

§ lxiv.  And  it  is  easy  to  understand,  if  we  follow  out  this 
thought,  how,  when  once  the  symbolic  language  was  familiar- 
ized to  the  mind,  and  its  solemnity  felt  in  all  its  fulness,  there 
was  no  likelihood  of  offence  being  taken  at  any  repulsive  or 
feeble  characters  in  execution  or  conception.  There  was  no 
form  so  mean,  no  incident  so  commonplace,  but,  if  regarded 
in  this  light,  it  might  become  sublime  ; the  more  vigorous  the 
fancy  and  the  more  faithful  the  enthusiasm,  the  greater  would 
be  the  likelihood  of  their  delighting  in  the  contemplation  of 
symbols  whose  mystery  was  enhanced  by  apparent  insignifi- 
cance, or  in  which  the  sanctity  and  majesty  of  meaning  were 
contrasted  with  the  utmost  uncouthness  of  external  form  : nor 
with  uncouthness  merely,  but  even  with  every  appearance  of 
malignity  or  baseness  ; the  beholder  not  being  revolted  even 
by  this,  but  comprehending  that,  as  the  seeming  evil  in  the 
framework  of  creation  did  not  invalidate  its  Divine  author- 
ship, so  neither  did  the  evil  or  imperfection  in  the  symbol 
invalidate  its  Divine  message.  And  thus,  sometimes,  the 
designer  at  last  became  wanton  in  his  appeal  to  the  piety  of 
his  interpreter,  and  recklessly  poured  out  the  impurity  and 
the  savageness  of  his  own  heart,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  see- 
ing them  overlaid  with  the  fine  gold  of  the  sanctuary,  by  the 
religion  of  their  beholder. 

§ lxv.  It  is  not,  however,  in  every  symbolical  subject  that 
the  fearful  grotesque  becomes  embodied  to  the  full.  The 
element  of  distortion  which  affects  the  intellect  when  dealing 
with  subjects  above  its  proper  capacity,  is  as  nothing  compared 
with  that  which  it  sustains  from  the  direct  impressions  of 
terror.  It  is  the  trembling  of  the  human  soul  in  the  presence 
of  death  which  most  of  all  disturbs  the  images  on  the  intellec- 
tual mirror,  and  invests  them  with  the  fitfulness  and  ghastli- 
ness of  dreams.  And  from  the  contemplation  of  death,  and 
of  the  pangs  which  follow  his  footsteps,  arise  in  men’s  hearts 
the  troop  of  strange  and  irresistible  superstitions  which,  more 
or  less  melancholy  or  majestic  according  to  the  dignity  of  the 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


157 


mind  they  impress,  are  yet  never  without  a certain  grotesque- 
ness, following  on  the  paralysis  of  the  reason  and  over-excite- 
ment of  the  fancy.  I do  not  mean  to  deny  the  actual  exist- 
ence of  spiritual  manifestations  ; I have  never  weighed  the 
evidence  upon  the  subject ; but  with  these,  if  such  exist,  we 
are  not  here  concerned.  The  grotesque  which  we  are  examin- 
ing arises  out  of  that  condition  of  mind  which  appears  to  fol- 
low naturally  upon  the  contemplation  of  death,  and  in  which 
the  fancy  is  brought  into  morbid  action  by  terror,  accom- 
panied by  the  belief  in  spiritual  presence,  and  in  the  possibility 
of  spiritual  apparition.  Hence  are  developed  its  most  sublime, 
because  its  least  voluntary,  creations,  aided  by  the  fearfulness 
of  the  phenomena  of  nature  which  are  in  any  wise  the  minis- 
ters of  death,  and  primarily  directed  by  the  peculiar  ghastli- 
ness of  expression  in  the  skeleton,  itself  a species  of  terrible 
grotesque  in  its  relation  to  the  perfect  human  frame. 

§ lxvi.  Thus,  first  born  from  the  dusty  and  dreadful  white- 
ness of  the  charnel  house,  but  softened  in  their  forms  by  the 
holiest  of  human  affections,  went  forth  the  troop  of  wild  and 
wonderful  images,  seen  through  tears,  that  had  the  mastery 
over  our  Northern  hearts  for  so  many  ages.  The  powers 
of  sudden  destruction  lurking  in  the  woods  and  waters,  in 
the  rocks  and  clouds ; — kelpie  and  gnome,  Lurlei  and  Hartz 
spirits ; the  wraith  and  foreboding  phantom  ; the  spectra  of 
second  sight ; the  various  conceptions  of  avenging  or  tor- 
mented ghost,  haunting  the  perpetrator  of  crime,  or  expiat- 
ing its  commission  ; and  the  half  fictitious  and  contemplative, 
half  visionary  and  believed  images  of  the  presence  of  death 
itself,  doing  its  daily  work  in  the  chambers  of  sickness  and 
sin,  and  waiting  for  its  hour  in  the  fortalices  of  strength  and 
the  high  places  of  pleasure  ; — these,  partly  degrading  us  by 
the  instinctive  and  paralyzing  terror  with  which  they  are  at- 
tended, and  partly  ennobling  us  by  leading  our  thoughts  to 
dwell  in  the  eternal  world,  fill  the  last  and  the  most  impor- 
tant circle  in  that  great  kingdom  of  dark  and  distorted  power, 
of  which  we  all  must  be  in  some  sort  the  subjects  until  mor- 
tality shall  be  swallowed  up  of  life  ; until  the  waters  of  the 
last  fordless  river  cease  to  roll  their  untransparent  volume 


158 


TIIE  STONES  OF  VENICE 


between  us  and  the  light  of  heaven,  and  neither  death  stand 
between  us  and  our  brethren,  nor  symbols  between  us  and 
our  God. 

§ lxvii.  We  have  now,  I believe,  obtained  a view  approach- 
ing to  completeness  of  the  various  branches  of  human  feeling 
which  are  concerned  in  the  development  of  this  peculiar  form 
of  art.  It  remains  for  us  only  to  note,  as  briefly  as  possible, 
what  facts  in  the  actual  history  of  the  grotesque  bear  upon 
our  immediate  subject. 

From  what  we  have  seen  to  be  its  nature,  we  must,  I think, 
be  led  to  one  most  important  conclusion  ; that  wherever  the 
human  mind  is  healthy  and  vigorous  in  all  its  proportions, 
great  in  imagination  and  emotion  no  less  than  in  intellect,  and 
not  overborne  by  an  undue  or  hardened  preeminence  of  the 
mere  reasoning  faculties,  there  the  grotesque  will  exist  in  full 
energy.  And,  accordingly,  I believe  that  there  is  no  test  of 
greatness  in  periods,  nations,  or  men,  more  sure  than  the 
development,  among  them  or  in  them,  of  a noble  grotesque, 
and  no  test  of  comparative  smallness  or  limitation,  of  one  kind 
or  another,  more  sure  than  the  absence  of  grotesque  inven- 
tion, or  incapability  of  understanding  it.  I think  that  the 
central  man  of  all  the  world,  as  representing  in  perfect  bal- 
ance the  imaginative,  moral,  and  intellectual  faculties,  all  at 
their  highest,  is  Dante  ; and  in  him  the  grotesque  reaches  at 
once  the  most  distinct  and  the  most  noble  development  to 
which  it  was  ever  brought  in  the  human  mind.  The  two 
other  greatest  men  whom  Italy  has  produced,  Michael  Angelo 
and  Tintoret,  show  the  same  element  in  no  less  original 
strength,  but  oppressed  in  the  one  by  his  science,  and  in  both 
by  the  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  they  lived ; never,  however, 
absent  even  in  Michael  Angelo,  but  stealing  forth  continually 
in  a strange  and  spectral  way,  lurking  in  folds  of  raiment  and 
knots  of  wild  hair,  and  mountainous  confusions  of  craggy 
limb  and  cloudy  drapery  ; and,  in  Tintoret,  ruling  the  entire 
conceptions  of  his  greatest  works  to  such  a degree  that  they 
are  an  enigma  or  an  offence,  even  to  this  day,  to  all  the  petty 
disciples  of  a formal  criticism.  Of  the  grotesque  in  our  own 
Shakspeare  I need  hardly  speak,  nor  of  its  intolerableness  to 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE, 


159 


his  French  critics  ; nor  of  that  of  iEschylus  and  Homer,  as 
opposed  to  the  lower  Greek  writers ; and  so  I believe  it  will 
be  found,  at  all  periods,  in  all  minds  of  the  first  order. 

§ lxviii.  As  an  index  of  the  greatness  of  nations,  it  is  a less 
certain  test,  or,  rather,  we  are  not  so  well  agreed  on  the  mean- 
ing of  the  term  “greatness”  respecting  them.  A nation  may 
produce  a great  effect,  and  take  up  a high  place  in  the  world’s 
history,  by  the  temporary  enthusiasm  or  fury  of  its  multi- 
tudes, without  being  truly  great ; or,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
discipline  of  morality  and  common  sense  may  extend  its  phys- 
ical power  or  exalt  its  well-being,  while  yet  its  creative  and 
imaginative  powers  are  continually  diminishing.  And  again  : 
a people  may  take  so  definite  a lead  over  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  in  one  direction,  as  to  obtain  a respect  which  is  not 
justly  due  to  them  if  judged  on  universal  grounds.  Thus  the 
Greeks  perfected  the  sculpture  of  the  human  body  ; threw 
their  literature  into  a disciplined  form,  which  has  given  it  a 
peculiar  power  over  certain  conditions  of  modern  mind  ; and 
were  the  most  carefully  educated  race  that  the  world  has 
seen ; but  a few  years  hence,  I believe,  w’e  shall  no  longer 
think  them  a greater  people  than  either  the  Egyptians  or  As- 
syrians. 

§ lxix.  If,  then,  ridding  ourselves  as  far  as  possible  of  prej- 
udices owing  merely  to  the  school-teaching  which  remains 
from  the  system  of  the  Renaissance,  we  set  ourselves  to  dis- 
cover in  what  races  the  human  soul,  taken  all  in  all,  reached 
its  highest  magnificence,  we  shall  find,  I believe,  two  great 
families  of  men,  one  of  the  East  and  South,  the  other  of  the 
West  and  North  : the  one  including  the  Egyptians,  Jews, 
Arabians,  Assyrians,  and  Persians  ; the  other,  I know  not 
whence  derived,  but  seeming  to  flow  forth  from  Scandinavia, 
and  filling  the  whole  of  Europe  with  its  Norman  and  Gothic 
energy.  And  in  both  these  families,  wherever  they  are  seen 
in  their  utmost  nobleness,  there  the  grotesque  is  developed  in 
its  utmost  energy  ; and  I hardly  know  whether  most  to  ad- 
mire the  winged  bulls  of  Nineveh,  or  the  winged  dragons  of 
Verona. 

§ lxx.  The  reader  who  has  not  before  turned  his  attention 


160 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


to  this  subject  may,  however,  at  first  have  some  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  between  the  noble  grotesque  of  these  great 
nations,  and  the  barbarous  grotesque  of  mere  savages,  as  seen 
in  the  work  of  the  Hindoo  and  other  Indian  nations  ; or, 
more  grossly  still,  in  that  of  the  complete  savage  of  the  Pa- 
cific islands ; or  if,  as  is  to  be  hoped,  he  instinctively  feels  the 
difference,  he  may  yet  find  difficulty  in  determining  wherein 
that  difference  consists.  But  he  will  discover,  on  considera- 
tion, that  the  noble  grotesque  involves  the  true  appreciation  of 
beauty,  though  the  mind  may  wilfully  turn  to  other  images  or 
the  hand  resolutely  stop  short  of  the  perfection  which  it  must 
fail,  if  it  endeavored,  to  reach  ; while  the  grotesque  of  the 
Sandwich  islander  involves  no  perception  or  imagination  of 
anything  above  itself.  He  will  find  that  in  the  exact  propor- 
tion in  which  the  grotesque  results  from  an  incapability  of 
perceiving  beauty,  it  becomes  savage  or  barbarous  ; and  that 
there  are  many  stages  of  progress  to  be  found  in  it  even  in  its 
best  times,  much  truly  savage  grotesque  occurring  in  the  fine 
Gothic  periods,  mingled  with  the  other  forms  of  the  ignoble 
grotesque  resulting  from  vicious  inclinations  or  base  sportive- 
ness. Nothing  is  more  mysterious  in  the  history  of  the  hu- 
man mind,  than  the  manner  in  which  gross  and  ludicrous  im- 
ages are  mingled  with  the  most  solemn  subjects  in  the  work 
of  the  middle  ages,  whether  of  sculpture  or  illumination  ; and 
although,  in  great  part,  such  incongruities  are  to  be  accounted 
for  on  the  various  principles  which  I have  above  endeavored 
to  define,  in  many  instances  they  are  clearly  the  result  of  vice 
and  sensuality.  The  general  greatness  of  seriousness  of  an 
age  does  not  affect  the  restoration  of  human  nature ; and  it 
would  be  strange,  if,  in  the  midst  of  the  art  even  of  the  best 
periods,  when  that  art  was  entrusted  to  myriads  of  workmen, 
we  found  no  manifestations  of  impiety,  folly,  or  impurity. 

§ lxxi.  It  needs  only  to  be  added  that  in  the  noble  grotesque, 
as  it  is  partly  the  result  of  a morbid  state  of  the  imaginative 
power,  that  power  itself  will  be  always  seen  in  a high  degree  ; 
and  that  therefore  our  power  of  judging  of  the  rank  of  a 
grotesque  work  will  depend  on  the  degree  in  which  we  are 
in  general  sensible  of  the  presence  of  invention.  The  reader 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


161 


may  partly  test  this  power  in  himself  by  referring  to  the 
Plate  given  in  the  opening  of  this  chapter,  in  which,  on  the 
left,  is  a piece  of  noble  and  inventive  grotesque,  a head  of  the 
lion-symbol  of  St.  Mark,  from  the  Veronese  Gothic;  the  other 
is  a head  introduced  as  a boss  on  the  foundation  of  the  Pa- 
lazzo Corner  della  Begin  a at  Venice,  utterly  devoid  of  inven- 
tion, made  merely  monstrous  by  exaggerations  of  the  eyeballs 
and  cheeks,  and  generally  characteristic  of  that  late  Benais- 
sance  grotesque  of  Venice,  with  which  we  are  at  2~>resent  more 
immediately  concerned.* 

§ lxxii.  The  development  of  that  grotesque  took  place 
under  different  laws  from  those  which  regulate  it  in  any  other 
European  city.  For,  great  as  we  have  seen  the  Byzantine 
mind  show  itself  to  be  in  other  directions,  it  was  marked  as 
that  of  a declining  nation  by  the  absence  of  the  grotesque  ele- 
ment ; and,  owing  to  its  influence,  the  early  Venetian  Gothic 
remained  inferior  to  all  other  schools  in  this  particular  charac- 
ter. Nothing  can  well  be  more  wonderful  than  its  instant 
failure  in  any  attempt  at  the  representation  of  ludicrous  or 
fearful  images,  more  especially  when  it  is  compared  with  the 
magnificent  grotesque  of  the  neighboring  city  of  Verona,  in 
which  the  Lombard  influence  had  full  sway.  Nor  was  it  until 
the  last  links  of  connexion  with  Constantinople  had  been  dis- 
solved, that  the  strength  of  the  Venetian  mind  could  manifest 
itself  in  this  direction.  But  it  had  then  a new  enemy  to  en- 
counter. The  Benaissance  laws  altogether  checked  its  imagina- 
tion in  architecture  ; and  it  could  only  obtain  permission  to 
express  itself  by  starting  forth  in  the  v*rork  of  the  Venetian 
painters,  filling  them  with  monkeys  and  dwarfs,  even  amidst 

* Note  especially,  in  connexion  with  wliat  was  advanced  in  Vol.  II. 
respecting  our  English  neatness  of  execution,  how  the  base  workman  has 
cut  the  lines  of  the  architecture  neatly  and  precisely  round  the  abom- 
inable head  : but  the  noble  workman  has  used  his  chisel  like  a painter’s 
pencil,  and  sketched  the  glory  with  a few  irregular  lines,  anything 
rather  than  circular  ; and  struck  out  the  whole  head  in  the  same  frank 
and  fearless  way,  leaving  the  sharp  edges  of  the  stone  as  they  first  broke, 
and  flinging  back  the  crest  of  hair  from  the  forehead  with  half  a dozen 
hammer-strokes,  while  the  poor  wretch  who  did  the  other  was,  half  a 
Aay  in  smoothing  its  vapid  and  vermicular  curls, 

Yjl.  Ill— 11 


162 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  most  serious  subjects,  and  leading  Veronese  and  Tintoret 
to  the  most  unexpected  and  wild  fantasies  of  form  and  color. 

§ lxxiii.  We  may  be  deeply  thankful  for  this  peculiar  re- 
serve of  the  Gothic  grotesque  character  to  the  last  days  of 
Venice.  All  over  the  rest  of  Europe  it  had  been  strongest  in 
the  days  of  imperfect  art  ; magnificently  powerful  throughout 
the  whole  of  the  thirteenth  century,  tamed  gradually  in  the 
fourteenth  and  fifteenth,  and  expiring  in  the  sixteenth  amidst 
anatomy  and  laws  of  art.  But  at  Venice,  it  had  not  been  re- 
ceived when  it  was  elsewhere  in  triumph,  and  it  fled  to  the 
lagoons  for  shelter  when  elsewhere  it  was  oppressed.  And  it 
was  arrayed  by  the  Venetian  painters  in  robes  of  state,  and 
advanced  by  them  to  such  honor  as  it  had  never  received  in  its 
days  of  widest  dominion  ; while,  in  return,  it  bestowed  upon 
their  pictures  that  fulness,  piquancy,  decision  of  parts,  and 
mosaic-like  intermingling  of  fancies,  alternately  brilliant  and 
sublime,  which  were  exactly  what  was  most  needed  for  the  de- 
velopment of  their  unapproachable  color-power. 

§ lxxiv.  Yet,  observe,  it  by  no  means  follows  that  because 
the  grotesque  does  not  appear  in  the  art  of  a nation,  the  sense 
of  it  does  not  exist  in  the  national  mind.  Except  in  the  form 
of  caricature,  it  is  hardly  traceable  in  the  English  work  of  the 
present  day  ; but  the  minds  of  our  workmen  are  full  of  it,  if 
we  would  only  allow  them  to  give  it  shape.  They  express  it 
daily  in  gesture  and  gibe,  but  are  not  allowed  to  do  so  where 
it  would  be  useful.  In  like  manner,  though  the  Byzantine 
influence  repressed  it  in  the  early  V enetian  architecture,  it  was 
always  present  in  the  Venetian  mind,  and  showed  itself  in 
various  forms  of  national  custom  and  festival ; acted  gro- 
tesques, full  of  wit,  feeling,  and  good-humor.  The  ceremony 
of  the  hat  and  the  orange,  described  in  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter,  is  one  instance  out  of  multitudes.  Another,  more 
rude,  and  exceedingly  characteristic,  was  that  instituted  in  the 
twelfth  century  in  memorial  of  the  submission  of  Woldaric, 
the  patriarch  of  Aquileia,  who,  having  taken  up  arms  against 
the  patriarch  of  Grado,  and  being  defeated  and  taken  prisoner 
by  the  Venetians,  was  sentenced,  not  to  death,  but  to  send 
every  year  on  “Eat  Thursday  ” sixty -two  large  loaves,  twelve 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


163 

fat  pigs,  and  a bull,  to  the  Doge  ; the  bull  being  understood 
to  represent  the  patriarch,  and  the  twelve  pigs  his  clergy  : and 
the  ceremonies  of  the  day  consisting  in  the  decapitation  of 
these  representatives,  and  a distribution  of  their  joints  among 
the  senators  ; together  with  a symbolic  record  of  the  attack 
upon  Aquileia,  by  the  erection  of  a wooden  castle  in  the  rooms 
of  the  Ducal  Palace,  which  the  Doge  and  the  Senate  attacked 
and  demolished  with  clubs.  As  long  as  the  Doge  and  the 
Senate  were  truly  kingly  and  noble,  they  were  content  to  let 
this  ceremony  be  continued  ; but  when  they  became  proud 
and  selfish,  and  were  destroying  both  themselves  and  the  state 
by  their  luxury,  they  found  it  inconsistent  with  their  dignity, 
and  it  was  abolished,  as  far  as  the  Senate  w*as  concerned,  in 
1549.* 

§ lx xv.  By  these  and  other  similar  manifestations,  the  gro- 
tesque spirit  is  traceable  through  all  the  strength  of  the  Vene- 
tian people.  But  again  : it  is  necessary  that  wre  should  care- 
fully distinguish  between  it  and  the  spirit  of  mere  levity.  I 
said,  in  the  fifth  chapter,  that  the  Venetians  were  distinctively 
a serious  people,  serious,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  English  are  a more  serious  people  than  the  French  ; though 
the  habitual  intercourse  of  our  lower  classes  in  London  has  a 
tone  of  humor  in  it  which  I believe  is  untraceable  in  that  of 
the  Parisian  populace.  It  is  one  thing  to  indulge  in  playful 
rest,  and  another  to  be  devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  : 
and  gaiety  of  heart  during  the  reaction  after  hard  labor,  and 
quickened  by  satisfaction  in  the  accomplished  duty  or  per- 
fected result,  is  altogether  compatible  with,  nay,  even  in  some 
sort  arises  naturally  out  of,  a deep  internal  seriousness  of  dis- 
position ; this  latter  being  exactly  the  condition  of  mind 
which,  as  wre  have  seen,  leads  to  the  richest  developments  of 
t lie  playful  grotesque  ; wdiile,  on  the  contrary,  the  continual 
pursuit  of  pleasure  deprives  the  soul  of  all  alacrity  and  elas- 
ticity, and  leaves  it  incapable  of  happy  jesting,  capable  only 
of  that  which  is  bitter,  base,  and  foolish.  Thus,  throughout 
the  whole  of  the  early  career  of  the  Venetians,  though  there 
is  much  jesting,  there  is  no  levity  ; on  the  contrary  there  is  an 
* Tlie  decree  is  quoted  by  Mutinelli,  lib.  i.  p.  46. 


164 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


intense  earnestness  both  in  their  pursuit  of  commercial  and 
political  successes,  and  in  their  devotion  to  religion,*  which  led 
gradually  to  the  formation  of  that  highly  wrought  mingling 
of  immovable  resolution  with  secret  thoughtfulness,  which 
so  strangely,  sometimes  so  darkly,  distinguishes  the  Venetian 
character  at  the  time  of  their  highest  power,  when  the  serious- 
ness was  left,  but  the  conscientiousness  destroyed.  And  if 
there  be  any  one  sign  by  which  the  Venetian  countenance,  as 
it  is  recorded  for  us,  to  the  very  life,  by  a school  of  portrai- 
ture which  has  never  been  equalled  (chiefly  because  no  por- 
traiture ever  had  subjects  so  noble), — I say,  if  there  be  one 
thing  more  notable  than  another  in  the  Venetian  features,  it  is 
this  deep  pensiveness  and  solemnity.  In  other  districts  of  Italy, 
the  dignity  of  the  heads  which  occur  in  the  most  celebrated 
compositions  is  clearly  owing  to  the  feeling  of  the  painter.  He 
has  visibly  raised  or  idealized  his  models,  and  appears  always 
to  be  veiling  the  faults  or  failings  of  the  human  nature  around 
him,  so  that  the  best  of  his  work  is  that  which  has  most  per- 
fectly taken  the  color  of  his  own  mind  ; and  the  least  impres- 
sive, if  not  the  least  valuable,  that  which  appears  to  have  been 
unaffected  and  unmodified  portraiture.  But  at  Venice,  all  is 
exactly  the  reverse  of  this.  The  tone  of  mind  in  the  painter 
appears  often  in  some  degree  frivolous  or  sensual ; delighting 
in  costume,  in  domestic  and  grotesque  incident,  and  in  studies 
of  the  naked  form.  But  the  moment  he  gives  himself  definitely 
to  portraiture,  all  is  noble  and  grave  ; the  more  literally  true 
his  work,  the  more  majestic  ; and  the  same  artist  who  will 
produce  little  beyond  what  is  commonplace  in  painting  a 
Madonna  or  an  apostle,  will  rise  into  unapproachable  sublimity 
when  his  subject  is  a member  of  the  Forty,  or  a Master  of  the 
Mint. 

Such,  then,  were  the  general  tone  and  progress  of  the  Vene- 
tian mind,  up  to  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century.  First, 
serious,  religious,  and  sincere  ; then,  though  serious  still, 
comparatively  deprived  of  conscientiousness,  and  apt  to  decline 
into  stern  and  subtle  policy  : in  the  first  case,  the  spirit  of  the 
noble  grotesque  not  showing  itself  in  art  at  all,  but  only  in 
* See  Appendix  9. 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 


165 


speech  and  action  ; in  the  second  case,  developing  itself  in 
painting,  through  accessories  and  vivacities  of  composition, 
while  perfect  dignity  was  always  preserved  in  portraiture.  A 
third  phase  rapidly  developed  itself. 

§ lxxvi.  Once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  let  me  refer  the 
reader  to  the  important  epoch  of  the  death  of  the  Doge 
Tomaso  Mocenigo  in  1423,  long  ago  indicated  as  the  com- 
mencement of  the  decline  of  the  Venetian  power.  That  com- 
mencement is  marked,  not  merely  by  the  words  of  the  dying 
Prince,  but  by  a great  and  clearly  legible  sign.  It  is  recorded, 
that  on  the  accession  of  his  successor,  Foscari,  to  the  throne, 
“ Si  festeggio  dalla  citta  uno  anno  intero  : ” “ The  city  kept 
festival  for  a whole  year.”  Venice  had  in  her  childhood  sown, 
in  tears,  the  harvest  she  was  to  reap  in  rejoicing.  She  now 
sowed  in  laughter  the  seeds  of  death. 

Thenceforward,  year  after  year,  the  nation  drank  w7ith 
deeper  thirst  from  the  fountains  of  forbidden  pleasure,  and 
dug  for  springs,  hitherto  unknown,  in  the  dark  places  of  the 
earth.  In  the  ingenuity  of  indulgence,  in  the  varieties  of 
vanity,  Venice  surpassed  the  cities  of  Christendom,  as  of  old 
she  surpassed  them  in  fortitude  and  devotion  ; and  as  once 
the  powers  of  Europe  stood  before  her  judgment-seat,  to  re- 
ceive the  decisions  of  her  justice,  so  now  the  youth  of  Europe 
assembled  in  the  halls  of  her  luxury,  to  learn  from  her  the  arts 
of  delight. 

It  is  as  needless,  as  it  is  painful,  to  trace  the  steps  of  her  final 
ruin.  That  ancient  curse  was  upon  her,  the  curse  of  the  cities 
of  the  plain,  “ Pride,  fulness  of  bread,  and  abundance  of  idle- 
ness.” By  the  inner  burning  of  her  own  passions,  as  fatal  as 
the  fiery  reign  of  Gomorrah,  she  was  consumed  from  her  place 
among  the  nations  ; and  her  ashes  are  choking  the  channels 
of  the  dead  salt  sea. 


166 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONCLUSION. 

§ i.  I peak  this  chapter  will  be  a rambling  one,  for  it  must 
be  a kind  of  supplement  to  the  preceding  pages,  and  a general 
recapitulation  of  the  things  I have  too  imperfectly  and  feebly 
said. 

The  grotesques  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries, 
the  nature  of  which  we  examined  in  the  last  chapter,  close  the 
career  of  the  architecture  of  Europe.  They  were  the  last  evi- 
dences of  any  feeling  consistent  with  itself,  and  capable  of 
directing  the  efforts  of  the  builder  to  the  formation  of  any- 
thing worthy  the  name  of  a style  or  school.  From  that  time 
to  this,  no  resuscitation  of  energy  lias  taken  place,  nor  does 
any  for  the  present  appear  possible.  How  long  this  impossi- 
bility may  last,  and  in  what  direction  with  regard  to  art  in 
general,  as  well  as  to  our  lifeless  architecture,  our  immediate 
efforts  may  most  profitably  be  directed,  are  the  questions  I 
would  endeavor  briefly  to  consider  in  the  present  chapter. 

§ ii.  That  modern  science,  with  all  its  additions  to  the  com- 
forts of  life,  and  to  the  fields  of  rational  contemplation,  has 
placed  the  existing  races  of  mankind  on  a higher  platform  than 
any  that  preceded  them,  none  can  doubt  for  an  instant ; and  I 
believe  the  position  in  which  we  find  ourselves  is  somewhat 
analogous  to  that  of  thoughtful  and  laborious  youth  succeed- 
ing a restless  and  heedless  infancy.  Not  long  ago,  it  wTas  said 
to  me  by  one  of  the  masters  of  modern  science  : “ When  men 
invented  the  locomotive,  the  child  was  learning  to  go ; when 
they  invented  the  telegraph,  it  was  learning  to  speak.”  He 
looked  forward  to  the  manhood  of  mankind,  as  assuredly  the 
nobler  in  proportion  to  the  slowness  of  its  development.  What 
might  not  be  expected  from  the  prime  and  middle  strength  of 
the  order  of  existence  whose  infancy  had  lasted  six  thousand 
years?  And,  indeed,  I think  this  the  truest,  as  well  as  the 
most  cheering,  view  that  we  can  take  of  the  world’s  history. 
Little  progress  has  been  made  as  yet.  Base  war,  lying  policy 


CONCLUSION. 


167 


thoughtless  cruelty,  senseless  improvidence, — all  things  which, 
in  nations,  are  analogous  to  the  petulance,  cunning,  impatience, 
and  carelessness  of  infancy, — have  been,  up  to  this  hour,  as 
characteristic  of  mankind  as  they  were  in  the  earliest  periods  ; 
so  that  we  must  either  be  driven  to  doubt  of  human  progress 
at  all,  or  look  upon  it  as  in  its  very  earliest  stage.  Whether 
the  opportunity  is  to  be  permitted  us  to  redeem  the  hours  that 
we  have  lost ; whether  He,  in  whose  sight  a thousand  years 
are  as  one  day,  has  appointed  us  to  be  tried  by  the  continued 
possession  of  the  strange  powers  with  which  He  has  lately  en- 
dowed us  ; or  whether  the  periods  of  childhood  and  of  proba- 
tion are  to  cease  together,  and  the  youth  of  mankind  is  to  be 
one  which  shall  prevail  over  death,  and  bloom  for  ever  in  the 
midst  of  a new  heaven  and  a new  earth,  are  questions  with 
which  we  have  no  concern.  It  is  indeed  right  that  we  should 
look  for,  and  hasten,  so  far  as  in  us  lies,  the  coming  of  the 
Day  of  God  ; but  not  that  we  should  check  any  human  efforts 
by  anticipations  of  its  approach.  We  shall  hasten  it  best  by 
endeavoring  to  work  out  the  tasks  that  are  appointed  for  us 
here  ; and,  therefore,  reasoning  as  if  the  world  were  to  con- 
tinue under  its  existing  dispensation,  and  the  powers  which 
have  just  been  granted  to  us  were  to  be  continued  through 
myriads  of  future  ages. 

§ hi.  It  seems  to  me,  then,  that  the  whole  human  race,  so 
far  as  their  own  reason  can  be  trusted,  may  at  present  be  re- 
garded as  just  emergent  from  childhood  ; and  beginning  for 
the  first  time  to  feel  their  strength,  to  stretch  their  limbs,  and 
explore  the  creation  around  them.  If  we  consider  that,  till 
within  the  last  fifty  years,  the  nature  of  the  ground  we  tread 
on,  of  the  air  we  breathe,  and  of  the  light  by  which  we  see, 
were  not  so  much  as  conjecturally  conceived  by  us  ; that  the 
duration  of  the  globe,  and  the  races  of  animal  life  by  which  it 
was  inhabited,  are  just  beginning  to  be  apprehended ; and 
that  the  scope  of  the  magnificent  science  which  has  revealed 
them,  is  as  yet  so  little  received  by  the  public  mind,  that  pre- 
sumption and  ignorance  are  still  permitted  to  raise  their 
voices  against  it  unrebuked  ; that  perfect  veracity  in  the  rep- 
resentation of  general  nature  by  art  has  never  been  attempted 


168 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


until  the  present  day,  and  has  in  the  present  day  been  resisted 
with  all  the  energy  of  the  popular  voice  ; * that  the  simplest 
problems  of  social  science  are  yet  so  little  understood,  as  that 
doctrines  of  liberty  and  equality  can  be  openly  preached,  and 
so  successfully  as  to  affect  the  whole  body  of  the  civilized 
world  with  apparently  incurable  disease  ; that  the  first  princi- 
ples of  commerce  were  acknowledged  by  the  English  Parlia- 
ment only  a few  months  ago,  in  its  free  trade  measures,  and 
are  still  so  little  understood  by  the  million,  that  no  nation 
dares  to  abolish  its  custom-houses  ; f that  the  simplest  prin- 
ciples of  policy  are  still  not  so  much  as  stated,  far  less  re- 
ceived, and  that  civilized  nations  persist  in  the  belief  that  the 
subtlety  and  dishonesty  which  they  know  to  be  ruinous  in 
dealings  between  man  and  man,  are  serviceable  in  dealings 
between  multitude  and  multitude  ; finally,  that  the  scope  of 
the  Christian  religion,  which  we  have  been  taught  for  two 
thousand  years,  is  still  so  little  conceived  by  us,  that  we  sup- 
pose the  laws  of  charity  and  of  self-sacrifice  bear  upon  indi- 
viduals in  all  their  social  relations,  and  yet  do  not  bear  upon 
nations  in  any  of  their  political  relations  ; — when,  I say,  we 
thus  review  the  depth  of  simplicity  in  which  the  human  race 
are  still  plunged  with  respect  to  all  that  it  most  profoundly 
concerns  them  to  know,  and  which  might,  by  them,  with  most 
ease  have  been  ascertained,  we  can  hardly  determine  how  far 
back  on  the  narrow  path  of  human  progress  we  ought  to 
place  the  generation  to  which  we  belong,  how  far  the  swad- 

* In  the  works  of  Turner  and  the  Pre-Raphelites. 

f Observe,  I speak  of  these  various  principles  as  self-evident,  only 
under  the  present  circumstances  of  the  world,  not  as  if  they  had  always 
been  so  ; and  I call  them  now  self-evident,  not  merely  because  they 
seem  so  to  myself,  but  because  they  are  felt  to  be  so  likewise  by  all  the 
men  in  whom  I place  most  trust.  But  granting  that  they  are  not  so, 
then  their  very  disputability  proves  the  state  of  infancy  above  alleged, 
as  characteristic  of  the  world.  For  I do  not  suppose  that  any  Christian 
reader  will  doubt  the  first  great  truth,  that  whatever  facts  or  laws  are 
important  to  mankind,  God  has  made  ascertainable  by  mankind ; and 
that  as  the  decision  of  all  these  questions  is  of  vital  importance  to  the 
race,  that  decision  must  have  been  long  ago  arrived  at,  unless  they  were 
still  in  a state  of  childhood. 


CONCLUSION. 


169 


dling  clotnes  are  unwound  from  us,  and  childish  things  be- 
ginning to  be  put  away. 

On  the  other  hand,  a power  of  obtaining  veracity  in  the 
representation  of  material  and  tangible  things,  which,  within 
certain  limits  and  conditions,  is  unimpeachable,  has  now  been 
placed  in  the  hands  of  all  men,*  almost  without  labor.  The 
foundation  of  every  natural  science  is  now  at  last  firmly  laid, 
not  a day  passing  without  some  addition  of  buttress  and  pin- 
nacle to  their  already  magnificent  fabric.  Social  theorems,  if 
fiercely  agitated,  are  therefore  the  more  likely  to  be  at  last  de- 
termined, so  that  they  never  can  be  matters  of  question  more. 
Human  life  has  been  in  some  sense  prolonged  by  the  increased 
powers  of  locomotion,  and  an  almost  limitless  power  of  con- 
verse. Finally,  there  is  hardly  any  serious  mind  in  Europe  but 
is  occupied,  more  or  less,  in  the  investigation  of  the  questions 
which  have  so  long  paralyzed  the  strength  of  religious  feeling, 
and  shortened  the  dominion  of  religious  faith.  And  we  may 
therefore  at  least  look  upon  ourselves  as  so  far  in  a definite 
state  of  progress,  as  to  justify  our  caution  in  guarding  against 
the  dangers  incident  to  every  period  of  change,  and  especially 
to  that  from  childhood  into  youth. 

§ iv.  Those  dangers  appear,  in  the  main,  to  be  * twofold  ; 
consisting  partly  in  the  pride  of  vain  knowledge,  partly  in  the 
pursuit  of  vain  pleasure.  A few  points  are  still  to  be  noticed 
with  respect  to  each  of  these  heads. 

Enough,  it  might  be  thought,  had  been  said  already,  touch- 
ing the  pride  of  knowledge  ; but  I have  not  yet  applied  the 
principles,  at  which  we  arrived  in  the  third  chapter,  to  the 
practical  questions  of  modern  art.  And  I think  those  princi- 
ples, together  with  what,  were  deduced  from  the  consideration 

* I intended  to  have  gi  iren  a sketch  in  this  place  (above  referred  to) 
of  the  probable  results  of  the  daguerreotype  and  calotvpe  within  the 
next  few  years,  in  modifying  the  application  of  the  engraver’s  art,  but  I 
have  not  had  time  to  complete  the  experiments  necessary  to  enable  me 
to  speak  with  certainty.  Of  one  thing,  however,  I have  little  doubt, 
that  an  infinite  service  will  soon  be  done  to  a large  body  of  our  engrav- 
ers ; namely,  the  making  them  draughtsmen  (in  black  and  white)  on 
paper  instead  of  steel. 


170 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


of  the  nature  of  Gothic  in  the  second  volume,  so  necessary  and 
vital,  not  only  with  respect  to  the  progress  of  art,  but  even  to  the 
happiness  of  society,  that  I will  rather  run  the  risk  of  tedious- 
ness than  of  deficiency,  in  their  illustration  and  enforcement. 

In  examining  the  nature  of  Gothic,  we  concluded  that  one 
of  the  chief  elements  of  power  in  that,  and  in  all  good  archi- 
tecture, was  the  acceptance  of  uncultivated  ancTrude  energy  in 
the  workman.  In  examining  the  nature  of  Renaissance,  we 
concluded  that  its  chief  element  of  weakness  was  that  pride  of 
knowledge  which  not  only  prevented  all  rudeness  in  expression, 
but  gradually  quenched  all  energy  which  could  only  be  rudely 
expressed  ; nor  only  so,  but,  for  the  motive  and  matter  of  the 
work  itself,  preferred  science  to  emotion,  and  experience  to 
perception. 

§ v.  The  modern  mind  differs  from  the  Renaissance  mind 
in  that  its  learning  is  more  substantial  and  extended,  and  its 
temper  more  humble  ; but  its  errors,  with  respect  to  the  culti- 
vation of  art,  are  precisely  the  same, — nay,  as  far  as  regards 
execution,  even  more  aggravated.  We  require,  at  present, 
from  our  general  workmen,  more  perfect  finish  than  was  de- 
manded in  the  most  skilful  Renaissance  periods,  except  in  their 
very  finest  productions  ; and  our  leading  principles  in  teaching, 
and  in  the  patronage  which  necessarily  gives  tone  to  teaching, 
are,  that  the  goodness  of  work  consists  primarily  in  firmness  of 
handling  and  accuracy  of  science,  that  is  to  say,  in  hand-work 
and  head-work  ; whereas  heart-work,  which  is  the  one  work  we 
want,  is  not  only  independent  of  both,  but  often,  in  great  de- 
gree, inconsistent  with  either. 

§ vi.  Here,  therefore,  let  me  finally  and  firmly  enunciate 
the  great  principle  to  which  all  that  has  hitherto  been  stated  is 
subservient  : — that  art  is  valuable  or  otherwise,  only  as  it  ex- 
presses the  personality,  activity,  and  living  perception  of  a good 
and  great  human  soul ; that  it  may  express  and  contain  this 
with  little  help  from  execution,  and  less  from  science  ; and 
that  if  it  have  not  this,  if  it  show  not  the  vigor,  perception, 
and  invention  of  a mighty  human  spirit,  it  is  worthless. 
Worthless,  I mean,  as  art ; it  may  be  precious  in  some  other 
way,  but,  as  art,  it  is  nugatory.  Once  let  this  be  well  under- 


CONCLUSION . 


171 


stood  among  us,  and  magnificent  consequences  will  soon  follow. 
Let  me  repeat  it  in  other  terms,  so  that  I may  not  be  misun- 
derstood. All  art  is  great,  and  good,  and  true,  only  so  far  as  it 
is  distinctively  the  work  of  manhood  in  its  entire  and  highest 
sense  ; that  is  to  say,  not  the  work  of  limbs  and  fingers,  but  of 
the  soul,  aided,  according  to  her  necessities,  by  the  inferior 
powers  ; and  therefore  distinguished  in  essence  from  all  prod- 
ucts of  those  inferior  powers  unhelped  by  the  soul.  For  as 
a photograph  is  not  a work  of  art,  though  it  requires  certain 
delicate  manipulations  of  paper  and  acid,  and  subtle  calcula- 
tions of  time,  in  order  to  bring  out  a good  result ; so,  neither 
would  a drawing  like  a photograph,  made  directly  from  nat- 
ure, be  a work  of  art,  although  it  would  imply  many  delicate 
manipulations  of  the  pencil  and  subtle  calculations  of  effects 
of  color  and  shade.  It  is  no  more  art  * to  manipulate  a 
camel’s  hair  pencil,  than  to  manipulate  a china  tray  and  a 
glass  vial.  It  is  no  more  art  to  lay  on  color  delicately,  than  to 
lay  on  acid  delicately.  It  is  no  more  art  to  use  the  cornea 
and  retina  for  the  reception  of  an  image,  than  to  use  a lens 
and  a piece  of  silvered  paper.  But  the  moment  that  inner 
part  of  the  man,  or  rather  that  entire  and  only  being  of  the 
man,  of  which  cornea  and  retina,  fingers  and  hands,  pencils 
and  colors,  are  all  the  mere  servants  and  instruments  ; f that 

* I mean  art  in  its  highest  sense.  All  that  men  do  ingeniously  is  art, 
in  one  sense.  In  fact,  we  want  a definition  of  the  word  “ art’  much 
more  accurate  than  any  in  our  minds  at  present.  For,  strictly  speaking, 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  “fine  ” or  “high  ” art.  All  art  is  a low  and 
common  thing,  and  what  we  indeed  respect  is  not  art  at  all,  but  instinct 
or  inspiration  expressed  by  the  help  of  art. 

f “ Socrates.  This,  then,  was  what  I asked  you  ; whether  that  which 
puts  anything  else  to  service,  and  the  thing  which  is  put  to  service  by 
it,  are  always  two  different  things  ? 

Alcibiades.  I think  so. 

Socrates.  What  shall  we  then  say  of  the  leather-cutter  ? Does  he  cut 
his  leather  with  his  instruments  only,  or  with  his  hands  also  ? 

Alcibiades.  With  his  hands  also. 

Socrates.  Does  he  not  use  his  eyes  as  well  as  his  hands  ? 

Alcibiades.  Yes. 

Socrates . And  we  agreed  that  the  thing  which  uses  and  the  thing 
which  is  used,  were  different  things  ? 


172 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


manhood  which  has  light  in  itself,  though  the  eyeball  be  sight 
less,  and  can  gain  in  strength  when  the  hand  and  the  foot  are 
hewn  off  and  cast  into  the  fire  ; the  moment  this  part  of  the 
man  stands  forth  with  its  solemn  “ Behold,  it  is  I,”  then  the 
work  becomes  art  indeed,  perfect  in  honor,  priceless  in  value, 
boundless  in  power. 

§ vn.  Yet  observe,  I do  not  mean  to  speak  of  the  body  and 
soul  as  separable.  The  man  is  made  up  of  both : they  are  to 
be  raised  and  glorified  together,  and  all  art  is  an  expression 
of  the  one,  by  and  through  the  other.  All  that  I would  insist 
upon  is,  the  necessity  of  the  whole  man  being  in  his  work  ; 
the  body  must  be  in  it.  Hands  and  habits  must  be  in  it, 
whether  we  will  or  not  ; but  the  nobler  part  of  the  man  may 
often  not  be  in  it.  And  that  nobler  part  acts  principally  in 
love,  reverence,  and  admiration,  together  with  those  conditions 
of  thought  which  arise  out  of  them.  For  we  usually  fall  into 
much  error  by  considering  the  intellectual  powers  as  having 
dignity  in  themselves,  and  separable  from  the  heart ; whereas 
the  truth  is,  that  the  intellect  becomes  noble  and  ignoble  ac- 
cording to  the  food  we  give  it,  and  the  kind  of  subjects  with 
which  it  is  conversant.  It  is  not  the  reasoning  power  which, 
of  itself,  is  noble,  but  the  reasoning  power  occupied  with  its 
proper  objects.  Half  of  the  mistakes  of  metaphysicians  have 
arisen  from  their  not  observing  this ; namely,  that  the  intel- 
lect, going  through  the  same  processes,  is  yet  mean  or  nqble 
according  to  the  matter  it  deals  with,  and  wastes  itself  away 
in  mere  rotatory  motion,  if  it  be  set  to  grind  straws  and  dust. 
If  we  reason  only  respecting  words,  or  lines,  or  any  trifling 
and  finite  things,  the  reason  becomes  a contemptible  faculty  ; 

Alcibiades.  Yes. 

Socrates.  Then  the  leather-cutter  is  not  the  same  thing  as  his  eyes  or 
hands  ? 

Alcibiades.  So  it  appears. 

Socrates.  Does  not,  then,  man  make  use  of  his  whole  body  ? 

Alcibiades.  Assuredly. 

Socrates.  Then  the  man  is  not  the  same  thing  as  his  body  ? 

Alcibiades.  Tt  seems  so. 

Socrates.  What,  then,  is  the  man  ? 

Alcibiades.  I know  not.”  Plato , Alcibiades  I. 


CONCLUSION. 


173 


but  reason  employed  on  lioly  and  infinite  things,  becomes  her* 
self  holy  and  infinite.  So  that,  by  work  of  the  soul,  I mean 
the  reader  always  to  understand  the  work  of  the  entire  im- 
mortal creature,  proceeding  from  a quick,  perceptive,  and 
eager  heart,  perfected  by  the  intellect,  and  finally  dealt  with  by 
the  hands,  under  the  direct  guidance  of  these  higher  powers. 

§ viii.  And  now  observe,  the  first  important  consequence  of 
our  fully  understanding  this  preeminence  of  the  soul,  will  be 
the  due  understanding  of  that  subordination  of  knowledge  re- 
specting which  so  much  has  already  been  said.  For  it  must 
be  felt  at  once,  that  the  increase  of  knowledge,  merely  as  such, 
does  not  make  the  soul  larger  or  smaller  ; that,  in  the  sight  of 
God,  all  the  knowledge  man  can  gain  is  as  nothing  : but  that 
the  soul,  for  which  the  great  scheme  of  redemption  was  laid,  be 
it  ignorant  or  be  it  wise,  is  all  in  all ; and  in  the  activity, 
strength,  health,  and  well-being  of  this  soul,  lies  the  main  dif- 
ference, in  His  sight,  between  one  man  and  another.  And 
that  which  is  all  in  all  in  God’s  estimate  is  also,  be  assured,  all 
in  all  in  man’s  labor  ; and  to  have  the  heart  open,  and  the  eyes 
clear,  and  the  emotions  and  thoughts  warm  and  quick,  and  not 
the  knowing  of  this  or  the  other  fact,  is  the  state  needed  for 
all  mighty  doing  in  this  world.  And  therefore  finally,  for  this, 
the  weightiest  of  all  reasons,  let  us  take  no  pride  in  our  knowd- 
edge.  We  may,  in  a certain  sense,  be  proud  of  being  immortal ; 
we  may  be  proud  of  being  God’s  children  ; we  may  be  proud  of 
loving,  thinking,  seeing,  and  of  all  that  we  are  by  no  human 
teaching  : but  not  of  what  we  have  been  taught  by  rote  ; not  of 
the  ballast  and  freight  of  the  ship  of  the  spirit,  but  only  of  its 
pilotage,  without  which  all  the  freight  will  only  sink  it  faster, 
and  strew  the  sea  more  richly  with  its  ruin.  There  is  not 
at  this  moment  a youth  of  twenty,  having  received  what  we 
moderns  ridiculously  call  education,  but  he  knows  more  of 
everything,  except  the  soul,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul  did  ; but 
he  is  not  for  that  reason  a greater  man,  or  fitter  for  his  work, 
or  more  fit  to  be  heard  by  others,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul. 
There  is  not  at  this  moment  a junior  student  in  our  schools  of 
painting,  who  does  not  know  fifty  times  as  much  about  the 
art  as  Giotto  did  ; but  he  is  not  for  that  reason  greater  than 


174 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


Giotto  ; no,  nor  his  work  better,  nor  fitter  for  our  beholding. 
Let  him  go  on  to  know  all  that  the  human  intellect  can  dis* 
cover  and  contain  in  the  term  of  a long  life,  and  he  will  not 
be  one  inch,  one  line,  nearer  to  Giotto’s  feet.  But  let  him 
leave  his  academy  benches,  and,  innocently,  as  one  knowing 
nothing,  go  out  into  the  highways  and  hedges,  and  there  re- 
joice with  them  that  rejoice,  and  weep  with  them  that  weep  ; 
and  in  the  next  world,  among  the  companies  of  the  great  and 
good,  Giotto  will  give  his  hand  to  him,  and  lead  him  into  their 
white  circle,  and  say,  “ This  is  our  brother.” 

§ ix.  And  the  second  important  consequence  of  our  feel- 
ing the  soul’s  preeminence  will  be  our  understanding  the  soul’s 
language,  however  broken,  or  low,  or  feeble,  or  obscure  in  its 
words  ; and  chiefly  that  great  symbolic  language  of  past  ages, 
which  has  now  so  long  been  unspoken.  It  is  strange  that  the 
same  cold  and  formal  spirit  which  the  Benaissance  teaching 
has  raised  amongst  us,  should  be  equally  dead  to  the  languages 
of  imitation  and  of  symbolism  ; and  should  at  once  disdain  the 
faithful  rendering  of  real  nature  by  the  modern  school  of  the 
Pre-Baphaelites,  and  the  symbolic  rendering  of  imagined  nature 
in  the  work  of  the  thirteenth  century.  But  so  it  is  ; and  we 
find  the  same  body  of  modern  artists  rejecting  Pre-Raphaelit- 
ism  because  it  is  not  ideal ! and  thirteenth  century  work,  be- 
cause it  is  not  real  ! — their  own  practice  being  at  once  false 
and  un-ideal,  and  therefore  equally  opposed  to  both. 

§ x.  It  is  therefore,  at  this  juncture,  of  much  importance 
to  mark  for  the  reader  the  exact  relation  of  healthy  sym- 
bolism and  of  healthy  imitation  ; and,  in  order  to  do  so,  let  us 
return  to  one  of  our  Venetian  examples  of  symbolic  art,  to  the 
central  cupola  of  St.  Mark’s.  On  that  cupola,  as  has  been 
already  stated,  there  is  a mosaic  representing  the  Apostles  on 
the  Mount  of  Olives,  with  an  olive-tree  separating  each  from 
the  other  ; and  we  shall  easily  arrive  at  our  purpose,  by  com- 
paring the  means  which  would  have  been  adopted  by  a modern 
artist  bred  in  the  Renaissance  schools, — that  is  to  say,  under 
the  influence  of  Claude  and  Poussin,  and  of  the  common  teach- 
ing of  the  present  day, — with  those  adopted  by  the  Byzantine 
mosaicist  to  express  the  nature  of  these  trees. 


CONCLUSION, : 


175 


§ xi.  The  reader  is  doubtless  a wars  that  the  olive  is  one  of 
the  most  characteristic  and  beautiful  features  of  all  Southern 
scenery.  On  the  slopes  of  the  northern  Apennines,  olives 
are  the  usual  forest  timber  ; the  whole  of  the  Yal  d’Arno  is 
wooded  with  them,  every  one  of  its  gardens  is  filled  with  them, 
and  they  grow  in  orchard-like  ranks  out  of  its  fields  of  maize, 
or  corn,  or  vine  ; so  that  it  is  physically  impossible,  in  most 
parts  of  the  neighborhood  of  Florence,  Pistoja,  Lucca,  or  Pisa, 
to  choose  any  site  of  landscape  which  shall  not  owe  its  leading 
character  to  the  foliage  of  these  trees.  What  the  elm  and  oak 
are  to  England,  the  olive  is  to  Italy  ; nay,  more  than  this,  its 
presence  is  so  constant,  that,  in  the  case  of  at  least  four  fifths 
of  the  drawings  made  by  any  artist  in  North  Italy,  he  must 
have  been  somewhat  impeded  by  branches  of  olive  coming  be- 
tween him  and  the  landscape.  Its  classical  associations  double 
its  importance  in  Greece  ; and  in  the  Holy  Land  the  remem- 
brances connected  with  it  are  of  course  more  touching  than 
can  ever  belong  to  any  other  tree  of  the  field.  Now,  for  many 
years  back,  at  least  one  third  out  of  all  the  landscapes  painted 
by  English  artists  have  been  chosen  from  Italian  scenery ; 
sketches  in  Greece  and  in  the  Holy  Land  have  become  as  com- 
mon as  sketches  on  Hampstead  Heath  ; our  galleries  also  are 
full  of  sacred  subjects,  in  which,  if  any  background  be  intro- 
duced at  all,  the  foliage  of  the  olive  ought  to  have  been  a 
prominent  feature. 

And  here  I challenge  the  untravelled  English  reader  to  tell 
me  what  an  olive-tree  is  like  ? 

§ xii.  I know  he  cannot  answer  my  challenge.  He  has  no 
more  idea  of  an  olive-tree  than  if  olives  grew  only  in  the  fixed 
stars.  Let  him  meditate  a little  on  this  one  fact,  and  consider 
its  strangeness,  and  what  a wilful  and  constant  closing  of  the 
eyes  to  the  most  important  truths  it  indicates  on  the  part  of 
the  modern  artist.  Observe,  a want  of  perception,  not  of 
science.  I do  not  want  painters  to  tell  me  any  scientific  facts 
about  olive-trees.  But  it  had  been  well  for  them  to  have  felt 
and  seen  the  olive-tree  ; to  have  loved  it  for  Christ’s  sake, 
partly  also  for  the  helmed  Wisdom’s  sake  which  was  to  the 
heathen  in  some  sort  as  that  nobler  Wisdom  which  stood  at 


176 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


God’s  right  hand,  when  He  founded  the  earth  and  established 
the  heavens.  To  have  loved  it,  even  to  the  hoary  dimness  of 
its  delicate  foliage,  subdued  and  faint  of  hue,  as  if  the  ashes  of 
the  Gethsemane  agony  had  been  cast  upon  it  for  ever  ; and  to 
have  traced,  line  by  line,  the  gnarled  writhing,  of  its  intricate 
branches,  and  the  pointed  fretwork  of  its  light  and  narrow 
leaves,  inlaid  on  the  blue  field  of  the  sky,  and  the  small  rosy- 
white  stars  of  its  spring  blossoming,  and  the  beads  of  sable 
fruit  scattered  by  autumn  along  its  topmost  boughs — the  right, 
in  Israel,  of  the  stranger,  the  fatherless,  and  the  widow, — and, 
more  than  all,  the  softness  of  the  mantle,  silver  grey,  and  ten- 
der  like  the  down  on  a bird’s  breast,  with  which,  far  away,  it 
veils  the  undulation  of  the  mountains ; — these  it  had  been 
well  for  them  to  have  seen  and  drawn,  whatever  they  had  left 
unstudied  in  the  gallery. 

§ xiii.  And  if  the  reader  would  know  the  reason  why  this 
has  not  been  done  (it  is  one  instance  only  out  of  the  myriads 
which  might  be  given  of  sightlessness  in  modern  art),  and  will 
ask  the  artists  themselves,  he  will  be  informed  of  another  of 
the  marvellous  contradictions  and  inconsistencies  in  the  base 
Benaissance  art ; for  it  will  be  answered  him,  that  it  is  not 
right,  nor  according  to  law,  to  draw  trees  so  that  one  should 
be  known  from  another,  but  that  trees  ought  to  be  generalized 
into  a universal  idea  of  a tree  : that  is  to  say,  that  the  very 
school  which  carries  its  science  in  the  representation  of  man 
down  to  the  dissection  of  the  most  minute  muscle,  refuses  so 
much  science  to  the  drawing  of  a tree  as  shall  distinguish  one 
species  from  another  ; and  also,  while  it  attends  to  logic,  and 
rhetoric,  and  perspective,  and  atmosphere,  and  every  other 
circumstance  which  is  trivial,  verbal,  external,  or  accidental, 
in  what  it  either  says  or  sees,  it  will  not  attend  to  what  is  es- 
sential and  substantial, — being  intensely  solicitous,  for  in- 
stance, if  it  draws  two  trees,  one  behind  the  other,  that  the 
farthest  off  shall  be  as  much  smaller  as  mathematics  show  that 
it  should  be,  but  totally  unsolicitous  to  show,  what  to  the 
spectator  is  a far  more  important  matter,  whether  it  is  an 
apple  or  an  orange-tree. 

§ xiv.  This,  however,  is  not  to  our  immediate  purpose.  Lei 


CONCLUSION . 


177 


it  be  granted  that  an  idea  of  an  olive-tree  is  indeed  to  be  given 
us  in  a special  manner  ; how,  and  by  what  language,  this  idea 
is  to  be  conveyed,  are  questions  on  which  we  shall  find  the 
world  of  artists  again  divided  ; and  it  was  this  division  which 
I wished  especially  to  illustrate  by  reference  to  the  mosaics  of 
St.  Mark’s. 

Now  the  main  characteristics  of  an  olive-tree  are  these.  It 
has  sharp  and  slender  leaves  of  a greyish  green,  nearly  grey 
on  the  under  surface,  and  resembling,  but  somewhat  smaller 
than,  those  of  our  common  willow.  Its  fruit,  when  ripe,  is 
black  and  lustrous  ; but  of  course  so  small,  that,  unless  in 
great  quantity,  it  is  not  conspicuous  upon  the  tree.  Its  trunk 
and  branches  are  peculiarly  fantastic  in  their  twisting,  show- 
ing their  fibres  at  every  turn  ; and  the  trunk  is  often  hollow, 
and  even  rent  into  many  divisions  like  separate  stems,  but  the 
extremities  are  exquisitely  graceful,  especially  in  the  setting 
on  of  the  leaves  ; and  the  notable  and  characteristic  effect  of 
the  tree  in  the  distance  is  of  a rounded  and  soft  mass  or  ball 
of  downy  foliage. 

§ xv.  Supposing  a modern  artist  to  address  himself  to  the 
rendering  of  this  tree  with  his  best  skill  : he  will  probably 
draw  accurately  the  twisting  of  the  branches,  but  yet  this  will 
hardly  distinguish  the  tree  from  an  oak  : he  will  also  render 
the  color  and  intricacy  of*  the  foliage,  but  this  will  only  con- 
fuse the  idea  of  an  oak  with  that  of  a willow.  The  fruit,  and 
the  peculiar  grace  of  the  leaves  at  the  extremities,  and  the 
fibrous  structure  of  the  stems,  will  all  be  too  minute  to  be 
rendered  consistently  with  his  artistical  feeling  of  breadth,  or 
with  the  amount  of  labor  which  he  considers  it  dexterous  and 
legitimate  to  bestow  upon  the  w^ork  : but,  above  all,  the 
rounded  and  monotonous  form  of  the  head  of  the  tree  will  be 
at  variance  with  his  ideas  of  “ composition  ; ” he  will  assuredly 
disguise  or  break  it,  and  the  main  points  of  the  olive-tree  will 
all  at  last  remain  untold. 

§ xvi.  Now  observe,  the  old  Byzantine  mosaicist  begins  his 
work  at  enormous  disadvantage.  It  is  to  be  some  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  above  the  eye,  in  a dark  cupola  ; execut- 
ed not  with  free  touches  of  the  pencil,  but  with  square  pieces 
Vol.  III.— 13 


■ 178 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


of  glass  ; not  by  his  own  hand,  but  by  various  workmen  under 
his  superintendence ; finally,  not  with  a principal  purpose  of 
drawing  olive-trees,  but  mainly  as  a decoration  of  the  cupola. 
There  is  to  be  an  olive-tree  beside  each  apostle,  and  their 
•stems  are  to  be  the  chief  lines  which  divide  the  dome.  He 
therefore  at  once  gives  up  the  irregular  twisting  of  the  boughs 
hither  and  thither,  but  he  will  not  give  up  their  fibres.  Other 
trees  have  irregular  and  fantastic  branches,  but  the  knitted 
cordage  of  fibres  is  the  olive’s  own.  Again,  were  he  to  draw 
the  leaves  of  their  natural  size,  they  would  be  so  small  that 
their  forms  would  be  invisible  in  the  darkness  ; and  were  he 
to  draw  them  so  large  as  that  their  shape  might  be  seen,  they 
would  look  like  laurel  instead  of  olive.  So  he  arranges  them 
in  small  clusters  of  five  each,  nearly  of  the  shape  which  the 
Byzantines  give  to  the  petals  of  the  lily,  but  elongated  so  as 
to  give  the  idea  of  leafage  upon  a spray  ; and  these  clusters, — 
his  object  always,  be  it  remembered,  being  decoration  not  less 
than  representation , — he  arranges  symmetrically  on  each  side 
of  his  branches,  laying  the  whole  on  a dark  ground  most  truly 
suggestive  of  the  heavy  rounded  mass  of  the  tree,  which,  in 
its  turn,  is  relieved  against  the  gold  of  the  cupola.  Lastly, 
comes  the  question  respecting  the  fruit.  The  whole  power 
and  honor  of  the  olive  is  in  its  fruit ; and,  unless  that  be 
represented,  nothing  is  represented*  But  if  the  berries  were 
colored  black  or  green,  they  would  be  totally  invisible ; if  of 
any  other  color,  utterly  unnatural,  and  violence  would  be  done 
to  the  whole  conception.  There  is  but  one  conceivable  means 
of  showing  them,  namely  to  represent  them  as  golden.  For 
the  idea  of  golden  fruit  of  various  kinds  was  already  familiar 
to  the  mind,  as  in  the  apples  of  the  Hesperides,  without  any 
violence  to  the  distinctive  conception  of  the  fruit  itself.*  So 

* Thus  the  grapes  pressed  by  Excesse  are  partly  golden  (Spenser  book 
ii.  cant.  12.): 

“ Which  did  themselves  amongst  the  leaves  enfold, 

As  lurking  from  the  view  of  covetous  guest, 

That  the  weake  bough es,  with  so  rich  load  opprest 
Bid  bow  adowne  as  overburdened.” 


\ 


V 


Plate  IV.— Mosaics  op  Olive-tree  and  Flowers, 


CONCLUSION. 


179 

the  mosaicist  introduced  small  round  golden  berries  into  the 
dark  ground  between  each  leaf,  and  his  work  was  done 
§ xvii.  On  the  opposite  plate,  the  uppermost  figure  on  tlm 
left  is  a tolerably  faithful  representation  of  the  general  effect 
of  one  of  these  decorative  olive-trees  ; the  figure  on  the  rrnht 
is  the  head  of  the  tree  alone,  showing  the  leaf  clusters,  berries 
and  interlacing  of  the  boughs  as  they  leave  the  stem  Each 
bough  is  connected  with  a separate  line  of  fibre  in  the  trunk 
and  the  junctions  of  the  arms  and  stem  are  indicated,  down  to 
the  very  root  of  the  tree,  with  a truth  in  structure  which  may 
well  put  to  shame  the  tree  anatomy  of  modern  times. 

§ xviii  The  white  branching  figures  upon  the  serpentine 
band  below  are  two  of  the  clusters  of  flowers  which  form  the 
foreground  of  a mosiac  in  the  atrium.  I have  printed  the 
whole  plate  in  blue  because  that  color  approaches  more  nearly 
than  black  to  the  distant  effect  of  the  mosaics,  of  which  the 
darker  portions  are  generally  composed  of  blue,  in  greater 
quantity  than  any  other  color.  But  the  waved  background  in 
this  instance,  is  of  various  shades  of  blue  and  green  alternately 
with  one  narrow  black  band  to  give  it  force  ; the  whole  being 
intended  to  represent  the  distant  effect  and  color  of  deep  grass* 
and  the  wavy  hue  to  express  its  bending  motion,  just  as  the 
same  symbol  is  used  to  represent  the  waves  of  water  Then 
the  two.  white  clusters  are  representative  of  the  distinctly  visi- 
ble herbage  close  to  the  spectator,  having  buds  and  flowers  of 
two  kinds,  springing  in  one  case  out  of  the  midst  of  twisted 
grass,  and  in  the  other  out  of  their  own  proper  leaves  ; the 
lusters  being  kept  each  so  distinctly  symmetrical,  as  to  form 
when  set  side  by  side,  an  ornamental  border  of  perfect  archi- 
tectural severity  ; and  yet  each  cluster  different  from  the  next 
and  every  flower,  and  bud,  and  knot  of  grass,  varied  in  form 
and  thought.  The  way  the  mosaic  tesserae  are  arranged,  so  as 
give  the  writhing  of  the  grass  blades  round  the  stalks  of  the 
flowers,  is  exceedingly  fine. 

The  tree  circles  below  are  examples  of  still  more  severely 

f ° med’  0U  Pnnciple’  when  tlle  decoration 
to  be  m white  and  gold,  instead  of  color  ; these  ornaments 

being  cut  in  white  marble  on  the  outside  of  the  church  and 


180 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  ground  laid  in  with  gold,  though  necessarily  here  repre- 
sented, like  the  rest  of  the  plate,  in  blue.  And  it  is  exceed- 
ingly interesting  to  see  how  the  noble  workman,  the  moment 
he  is  restricted  to  more  conventional  materials,  retires  into 
more  conventional  forms,  and  reduces  his  various  leafage  into 
symmetry,  now  nearly  perfect ; yet  observe,  in  the  central 
figure,  where  the  symbolic  meaning  of  the  vegetation  beside 
the  cross  required  it  to  be  more  distinctly  indicated,  he  Las 
given  it  life  and  growth  by  throwing  it  into  unequal  curves 
on  the  opposite  sides. 

§ xix.  I believe  the  reader  will  now  see,  that  in  these  mo- 
saics, which  the  careless  traveller  is  in  the  habit  of  passing 
by  with  contempt,  there  is  a depth  of  feeling  and  of  meaning 
greater  than  in  most  of  the  best  sketches  from  nature  of  mod- 
ern times ; and,  without  entering  into  any  question  whether 
these  conventional  representations  are  as  good  as,  under  the 
required  limitations,  it  was  possible  to  render  them,  they  are 
at  all  events  good  enough  completely  to  illustrate  that  mode 
of  symbolical  expression  which  appeals  altogether  to  thought, 
and  in  no  wise  trusts  to  realization.  And  little  as,  in  the  pres- 
ent state  of  our  schools,  such  an  assertion  is  likely  to  be  be- 
lieved, the  fact  is  that  this  kind  of  expression  is  the  only  one 
allowable  in  noble  art. 

§ xx.  I pray  the  reader  to  have  patience  with  me  for  a few 
moments.  I do  not  mean  that  no  art  is  noble  but  Byzantine 
mosaic  ; but  no  art  is  noble  which  in  any  wise  depends  upon 
direct  imitation  for  its  effect  upon  the  mind.  This  was  as- 
serted in  the  opening  chapters  of  “ Modern  Painters,”  but  not 
upon  the  highest  grounds  ; the  results  at  which  we  have  now 
arrived  in  our  investigation  of  early  art,  will  enable  me  to 
place  it  on  a loftier  and  firmer  foundation. 

§ xxi.  We  have  just  seen  that  all  great  art  is  the  work  of 
the  whole  living  creature,  body  and  soul,  and  chiefly  of  the 
soul.  But  it  is  not  only  the  work  of  the  whole  creature,  it 
likewise  addresses  the  whole  creature.  That  in  which  the 
perfect  being  speaks,  must  also  have  the  perfect  being  to  lis- 
ten. I am  not  to  spend  my  utmost  spirit,  and  give  all  my 
strength  and  life  to  my  work,  while  you,  spectator  or  hearer, 


CONCLUSION . 


181 


will  give  me  only  the  attention  of  half  your  soul.  You  must 
be  all  mine,  as  I am  all  yours  ; it  is  the  only  condition  on 
which  we  can  meet  each  other.  All  your  faculties,  all  that  is 
in  you  of  greatest  and  best,  must  be  awake  in  you,  or  I have 
no  reward.  The  painter  is  not  to  cast  the  entire  treasure  of 
his  human  nature  into  his  labor,  merely  to  please  a part  of 
the  beholder  ; not  merely  to  delight  his  senses,  not  merely  to 
amuse  his  fanc}^,  not  merely  to  beguile  him  into  emotion,  not 
merely  to  lead  him  into  thought,  but  to  do  all  this.  Senses, 
fancy,  feeling,  reason,  the  whole  of  the  beholding  spirit,  must 
be  stilled  in  attention  or  stirred  with  delight ; else  the  labor- 
ing spirit  has  not  done  its  work  well.  For  observe,  it  is  not 
merely  its  right  to  be  thus  met,  face  to  face,  heart  to  heart ; 
but  it  is  its  duty  to  evoke  its  answering  of  the  other  soul  ; its 
trumpet  call  must  be  so  clear,  that  though  the  challenge  may 
by  dulness  or  indolence  be  unanswered,  there  shall  be  no 
error  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  appeal  ; there  must  be  a sum- 
mons in  the  work,  which  it  shall  be  our  own  fault  if  we  do 
not  obey.  We  require  this  of  it,  we  beseech  this  of  it.  Most 
men  do  not  know  what  is  in  them,  till  they  receive  this  sum- 
mons from  their  fellows  : their  hearts  die  within  them,  sleep 
settles  upon  them,  the  lethargy  of  the  world’s  miasmata  ; 
there  is  nothing  for  which  they  are  so  thankful  as  for  that 
cry,  “ Awake,  thou  that  sleepest.”  And  this  cry  must  be  most 
loudty  uttered  to  their  noblest  faculties  ; first  of  all  to  the 
imagination,  for  that  is  the  most  tender,  and  the  soonest 
struck  into  numbness  by  the  poisoned  air ; so  that  one  of  the 
main  functions  of  art  in  its  service  to  man,  is  to  arouse  the 
imagination  from  its  palsy,  like  the  angel  troubling  the 
Bethesda  pool  ; and  the  art  which  does  not  do  this  is  false  to 
its  duty,  and  degraded  in  its  nature.  It  is  not  enough  that  it 
be  well  imagined,  it  must  task  the  beholder  also  to  imagine 
well ; and  this  so  imperatively,  that  if  he  does  not  choose  to 
rouse  himself  to  meet  the  work,  he  shall  not  taste  it,  nor  en- 
joy it  in  any  wise.  Once  that  he  is  w.ell  awake,  the  guidance 
which  the  artist  gives  him  should  be  full  and  authoritative  : 
the  beholder’s  imagination  must  not  be  suffered  to  take  its 
own  way,  or  wander  hither  and  thither  ; but  neither  must  it 


182  ‘ 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


be  left  at  rest ; and  the  right  point  of  realization,  for  any 
given  work  of  art,  is  that  which  will  enable  the  spectator  to 
complete  it  for  himself,  in  the  exact  way  the  artist  would  have 
him,  but  not  that  which  will  save  him  the  trouble  of  effecting 
the  completion.  So  soon  as  the  idea  is  entirely  conveyed,  the 
artist’s  labor  should  cease  ; and  every  touch  which  he  adds 
beyond  the  point  when,  with  the  help  of  the  beholder’s  imagi- 
nation, the  story  ought  to  have  been  told,  is  a degradation  to 
his  work.  So  that  the  art  is  wrong,  which  either  realizes  its 
subject  completely,  or  fails  in  giving  such  definite  aid  as  shall 
enable  it  to  be  realized  by  the  beholding  imagination. 

§ xxii.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  quantity  of  finish  or 
detail  which  may  rightly  be  bestowed  upon  any  work,  de- 
pends on  the  number  and  kind  of  ideas  which  the  artist  wishes 
to  convey,  much  more  than  on  the  amount  of  realization  nec- 
essary to  enable  the  imagination  to  grasp  them.  It  is  true 
that  the  differences  of  judgment  formed  by  one  or  another 
observer  are  in  great  degree  dependent  on  their  unequal  im- 
aginative powers,  as  well  as  their  unequal  efforts  in  following 
the  artist’s  intention ; and  it  constantly  happens  that  the 
drawing  which  appears  clear  to  the  painter  in  whose  mind  the 
thought  is  formed,  is  slightly  inadequate  to  suggest  it  to  the 
spectator.  These  causes  of  false  judgment,  or  imperfect 
achievement,  must  always  exist,  but  they  are  of  no  impor- 
tance. .For,  in  nearly  every  mind,  the  imaginative  power, 
however  unable  to  act  independently,  is  so  easily  helped  and 
so  brightly  animated  by  the  most  obscure  suggestion,  that 
there  is  no  form  of  artistical  language  which  will  not  readily 
be  seized  by  it,  if  once  it  set  itself  intelligently  to  the  task  ; 
and  even  without  such  effort  there  are  few  hieroglyphics  of 
which,  once  understanding  that  it  is  to  take  them  as  heiro- 
glyphics,  it  cannot  make  itself  a pleasant  picture. 

§ xxiii.  Thus,  in  the  case  of  all  sketches,  etchings,  unfinished 
engravings,  &c.,  no  one  ever  supposes  them  to  be  imitations. 
Black  outlines  on  white  paper  cannot  produce  a deceptive  re- 
semblance of  anything  ; and  the  mind,  understanding  at  once 
that  it  is  to  depend  on  its  own  powers  for  great  part  of  its 
pleasure,  sets  itself  so  actively  to  the  task  that  it  can  completely 


COiVOi . UtilON. 


183 


enjoy  the  rudest  outline  in  which  meaning  exists.  Now,  when 
it  is  once  in  this  temper,  the  artist  is  infinitely  to  be  blamed 
who  insults  it  by  putting  anything  into  his  work  which  is  not 
suggestive  : having  summoned  the  imaginative  power,  he  must 
turn  it  to  account  and  keep  it  employed,  or  it  will  run  against 
him  in  indignation.  Whatever  he  does  merely  to  realize  and 
substantiate  an  idea  is  impertinent ; he  is  like  a dull  story- 
teller, dwelling  on  points  which  the  hearer  anticipates  or  dis- 
regards. The  imagination  will  say  to  him  : “I  knew  all  that 
before ; I don’t  want  to  be  told  that.  Go  on  ; or  be  silent, 
and  let  me  go  on  in  my  own  way.  I can  tell  the  story  better 
than  you.” 

Observe,  then,  whenever  finish  is  given  for  the  sake  of  reali- 
zation, it  is  wrong  ; whenever  it  is  given  for  the  sake  of  add- 
ing ideas  it  is  right.  All  true  finish  consists  in  the  addition 
of  ideas,  that  is  to  say,  in  giving  the  imagination  more  food  • 
for  once  well  awaked,  it  is  ravenous  for  food  : but  the  painter 
who  finishes  in  order  to  substantiate  takes  the  food  out  of  its 
mouth,  and  it  will  turn  and  rend  him. 

§ xxiv.  Let  us  go  back,  for  instance,  to  our  olive  grove,— 
or,  lest  the  reader  should  be  tired  of  olives,  let  it  be  an  oak 
c°pse  —and  consider  the  difference  between  the  substantiating 
and  the  imaginative  methods  of  finish  in  such  a subject  t 
few  strokes  of  the  pencil,  or  dashes  of  color,  will  be  enouo-h  to 
enab  e the  imagination  to  conceive  a tree  ; and  in  those  dashes 
of  color  Sir  Joshua  Eeynolds  would  have  rested,  and  would 
have  suffered  the  imagination  to  paint  what  more  it  liked  for 
itself  and  grow  oaks,  or  olives,  or  apples,  out  of  the  few  dashes 
of  color  at  its  leisure.  On  the  other  hand,  Hobbjma,  one  of 
the  worst  of  the  realists,  smites  the  imagination  on  the  mouth 
and  bids  it  be  silent,  while  he  sets  to  work  to  paint  his  oak  of 
ie  light  green,  and  fill  up  its  foliage  laboriously  with  jago-ed 
ouc  les,  and  funow  the  bark  all  over  its  branches,  so  as,  if 
possible,  to  deceive  us  into  supposing  that  we  are  looking  at 
areal  oak;  which,  indeed,  we  had  much  better  do  at  once 

without  giving  any  one  the  trouble  to  deceive  us  in  the  mat- 

cer. 

§ xxv.  Now,  the  truly  great  artist  neither  leaves  the  imagi* 


184: 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


nation  to  itself,  like  Sir  Joshua,  nor  insults  it  by  realization, 
like  Hobbima,  but  finds  it  continual  employment  of  the  hap- 
piest kind.  Having  summoned  it  by  his  vigorous  first  touches, 
he  says  to  it : “ Here  is  a tree  for  you,  and  it  is  to  be  an  oak. 
Now  I know  that  you  can  make  it  green  and  intricate  for 
yourself,  but  that  is  not  enough  : an  oak  is  not  only  green  and 
intricate,  but  its  leaves  have  most  beautiful  and  fantastic  forms 
which  I am  very  sure  you  are  not  quite  able  to  complete  with- 
out help  ; so  I will  draw  a cluster  or  two  perfectly  for  you, 
and  then  you  can  go  on  and  do  all  the  other  clusters.  So  far  so 
good  : but  the  leaves  are  not  enough  ; the  oak  is  to  be  full  of 
acorns,  and  you  may  not  be  quite  able  to  imagine  the  way 
they  grow,  nor  the  pretty  contrast  of  their  glossy  almond- 
shaped  nuts  with  the  chasing  of  their  cups  ; so  I will  draw  a 
bunch  or  two  of  acorns  for  you,  and  you  can  fill  up  the  oak 
with  others  like  them.  Good  : but  that  is  not  enough  ; it  is 
to  be  a bright  day  in  summer,  and  all  the  outside  leaves  are 
to  be  glittering  in  the  sunshine  as  if  their  edges  were  of  gold : 
I cannot  paint  this,  but  you  can  ; so  I will  really  gild  some  of 
the  edges  nearest  you,*  and  you  can  turn  the  gold  into  sun- 
shine, and  cover  the  tree  with  it.  Well  done  : but  still  this 
is  not  enough  ; the  tree  is  so  full  foliaged  and  so  old  that  the 
wood  birds  come  in  crowds  to  build  there  ; they  are  singing, 
two  or  three  under  the  shadow  of  every  bough.  I cannot 
show  you  them  all  ; but  here  is  a large  one  on  the  outside 
spray,  and  you  can  fancy  the  others  inside.” 

§ xxvi.  In  this  way  the  calls  upon  the  imagination  are  mul- 
tiplied as  a great  painter  finishes  ; and  from  these  larger  inci- 
dents he  may  proceed  into  the  most  minute  particulars,  and 
lead  the  companion  imagination  to  the  veins  in  the  leaves  and 
the  mosses  on  the  trunk,  and  the  shadows  of  the  dead  leaves 
upon  the  grass,  but  always  multiplying  thoughts,  or  subjects  of 
thought,  never  working  for  the  sake  of  realization  ; the  amount 
of  realization  actually  reached  depending  on  his  space,  his 

* The  reader  must  not  suppose  that  the  use  of  gold,  in  this  manner, 
is  confined  to  ea^ly  art.  Tintoret,  the  greatest  master  of  pictorial  effect 
that  ever  existed,  has  gilded  the  ribs  of  the  fig-leaves  in  his  “Resurrec- 
tion,” in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco. 


CONCLUSION. 


185 


materials,  and  the  nature  of  the  thoughts  he  wishes  to  suggest. 
In  the  sculpture  of  an  oak-tree,  introduced  above  an  Adoration 
of  the  Magi  on  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Marco  Dolfino  (four- 
teenth century),  the  sculptor  has  been  content  with  a few 
leaves,  a single  acorn,  and  a bird  ; while,  on  the  other  hand, 
Millais’  willow-tree  with  the  robin,  in  the  background  of  his 
“Ophelia,”  or  the  foreground  of  Hunt’s  “Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,  carries  the  appeal  to  the  imagination  into  particulars 
so  multiplied  and  minute,  that  the  work  nearly  reaches  realiza- 
tion. But  it  does  not  matter  how  near  realization  the  work 
may  approach  in  its  fulness,  or  how  far  off  it  may  remain  in 
its  slightness,  so  long  as  realization  is  not  the  end  proposed 
but  the  informing  one  spirit  of  the  thoughts  of  another.  And 
in  this  greatness  and  simplicity  of  purpose  all  noble  art  is 
ahke,  however  slight  its  means,  or  however  perfect,  from  the 
rudest  mosaics  of  St.  Mark’s  to  the  most  tender  finishing  of 
the  “Huguenot”  or  the  “Ophelia.” 

§ xxvii.  Only  observe,  in  this  matter,  that  a greater  degree 
of  realization  is  often  allowed,  for  the  sake  of  color,  than  would 
be  right  without  it.  For  there  is  not  any  distinction  between 
the  artists  of  the  inferior  and  the  nobler  schools  more  definite 
than  this  ; that  the  first  color  for  the  sake  of  realization,  and 
the  second  realize  for  the  sake  of  color.  I hope  that,  in  the 
filth  chapter,  enough  has  been  said  to  show  the  nobility  of 
color,  though  it  is  a subject  on  which  I would  fain  enlarge 
whenever  I approach  it : for  there  is  none  that  needs  more  to 
be  insisted  upon,  chiefly  on  account  of  the  opposition  of  the 
persons  who  have  no  eye  for  color,  and  who,  being  therefore 
unable  to  understand  that  it  is  just  as  divine  and  distinct  in  its 
power  as  music  (only  infinitely  more  varied  in  its  harmonies), 
ta-k  of  it  as  if  it  were  inferior  and  servile  with  respect  to  the 
other  powers  of  art ; * whereas  it  is  so  far  from  being  this,  that 


>vp  n?  T®  18  m°re  wouderfuI  t0  than  to  hear  the  pleasure  of  the 
hat  of  thp0r'  Sp  n "'l?1  di8daiu  as  “ sensual,”  while  people  exalt 
odilv  otl  T “■  D°  th6J  reaUy  SnPP0Se  tlie  V * a less  noble 
nowid  8 to  “ f6  ear’~that  the  °rS‘™  ^ which  nearly  all  our 
owledge  of  the  external  universe  is  communicated  to  us,  and  through 

h h ™ lea™  ‘he  wonder  and  the  love,  can  be  less  exalted  in  its  own 


186 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


wherever  it  enters  it  must  take  the  mastery,  and,  whatever  else 
is  sacrificed  for  its  sake,  it,  at  least,  must  be  right.  This  is 
partly  the  case  even  with  music  * it  is  at  our  choice,  whether 
we  will  accompany  a poem  with  music,  or  not ; but,  if  we  do. 
the  music  must  be  right,  and  neither  discordant  nor  inexpres- 
sive. The  goodness  and  sweetness  of  the  poem  cannot  save  it, 
if  the  music  be  harsh  or  false  ; but,  if  the  music  be  right,  the 
poem  may  be  insipid  or  inharmonious,  and  still  saved  by  the 
notes  to  which  it  is  wedded.  But  this  is  far  more  true  of  color. 
If  that  be  wrong,  all  is  wrong.  No  amount  of  expression  or 
invention  can  redeem  an  ill-colored  picture  ; while,  on  the 
other  hand,  if  the  color  be  right,  there  is  nothing  it  Will  not 
raise  or  redeem  ; and,  therefore,  wherever  color  enters  at  all, 
anything  may  be  sacrificed  to  it,  and,  rather  than  it  should  be 
false  or  feeble,  everything  must  be  sacrificed  to  it : so  that, 
when  an  artist  touches  color,  it  is  the  same  thing  as  when  a 
poet  takes  up  a musical  instrument ; he  implies,  in  so  doing, 
that  he  is  a master,  up  to  a certain  point,  of  that  instrument, 
and  can  produce  sweet  sounds  from  it,  and  is  able  to  fit  the 
course  and  measure  of  his  words  to  its  tones,  which,  if  he  be 
not  able  to  do,  he  had  better  not  have  touched  it.  In  like 
manner,  to  add  color  to  a drawing  is  to  undertake  for  the  per- 
fection of  a visible  music,  which,  if  it  be  false,  will  utterly  and 
assuredly  mar  the  whole  work  ; if  true,  proportionately  elevate 
it,  according  to  its  power  and  sweetness.  But,  in  no  case  ought 
the  color  to  be  added  in  order  to  increase  the  realization.  The 
drawing  or  engraving  is  all  that  the  imagination  needs.  To 
“ paint  ” the  subject  merely  to  make  it  more  real,  is  only  to  in- 
sult the  imaginative  power,  and  to  vulgarize  the  whole.  Hence 
the  common,  though  little  understood  feeling,  among  men  of 

peculiar  delight  than  the  ear,  which  is  only  for  the  communication  of 
the  ideas  which  owe  to  the  eye  their  very  existence ? I do  not  mean  to: 
depreciate  music : let  it  be  loved  and  reverenced  as  is  just ; only  let  the. 
delight  of  the  eye  be  reverenced  more.  The  great  power  of  music  over, 
the  multitude  is  owing,  not  to  its  being  less  but  more  sensual  than  color • 
it  is  so  distinctly  and  so  richly  sensual,  that  it  can  be  idly  enjoyed  ; it  is 
exactly  at  the  point  where  the  lower  and  higher  pleasures  of  the  senses 
and  imagination  are  balanced  ; so  that  pure  and  great  minds  love  it  fol 
its  invention  and  emotion,  and  lower  minds  for  its  sensual  powei. 


CONCLUSION . 


187 


ordinary  cultivation,  that  an  inferior  sketch  is  always  better 
than  a bad  painting  ; although,  in  the  latter,  there  may  verily 
be  more  skill  than  in  the  former.  For  the  painter  who  has 
presumed  to  touch  color  without  perfectly  understanding  it, 
not  for  the  color’s  sake,  nor  because  he  loves  it,  but  for  the 
sake  of  completion  merely,  has  committed  two  sins  against  us ; 
he  has  dulled  the  imagination  by  not  trusting  it  far  enough, 
and  then,  in  this  languid  state,  he  oppresses  it  with  base  and 
false  color  ; for  all  color  that  is  not  lovely,  is  discordant ; there 
is  no  mediate  condition.  So,  therefore,  when  it  is  permitted 
to  enter  at  all,  it  must  be  with  the  predetermination  that,  cost 
what  it  will,  the  color  shall  be  right  and  lovely  : and  I only 
wish  that,  in  general,  it  were  better  understood  that  & painter’s 
business  is  to  paint,  primarily  ; and  that  all  expression,  and 
grouping,  and  conceiving,  and  what  else  goes  to  constitute 
design,  are  of  less  importance  than  color,  in  a colored  work . 
And  so  they  were  always  considered  in  the  noble  periods  ; and 
sometimes  all  resemblance  to  nature  whatever  (as  in  painted 
windows,  illuminated  manuscripts,  and  such  other  work)  is 
sacrificed  to  the  brilliancy  of  color  ; sometimes  distinctness 
of  form  to  its  richness,  as  by  Titian,  Turner,  and  Reynolds  ; 
and,  which  is  the  point  on  which  we  are  at  present  insisting, 
sometimes,  in  the  pursuit  of  its  utmost  refinements  on  the 
surfaces  of  objects,  an  amount  of  realization  becomes  consistent 
with  noble  art,  which  would  otherwise  be  altogether  inadmis- 
sible, that  is  to  say,  which  no  great  mind  could  otherwise  have 
either  produced  or  enjoyed.  The  extreme  finish  given  by 
the  Pre-Raphaelites  is  rendered  noble  chiefly  by  their  love  of 
color. 

§ xxviii.  So  then,  whatever  may  be  the  means,  or  whatever 
the  more  immediate  end  of  any  kind  of  art,  all  of  it  that  is 
good  agrees  in  this,  that  it  is  the  expression  of  one  soul  talking 
to  another,  and  is  precious  according  to  the  greatness  of  the 
soul  that  utters  it.  And  consider  what  mighty  consequences 
follow  from  our  acceptance  of  this  truth  ! what  a key  we  have 
herein  given  us  for  the  interpretation  of  the  art  of  all  time  ! 
For,  as  long  as  we  held  art  to  consist  in  any  high  manual 
skill,  or  successful  imitation  of  natural  objects,  or  any  scien- 


188 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


tific  and  legalized  manner  of  performance  whatever,  it  was 
necessary  for  us  to  limit  our  admiration  to  narrow  periods 
and  to  few  men.  According  to  our  own  knowledge  and  sym- 
pathies, the  period  chosen  might  be  different,  and  our  rest 
might  be  in  Greek  statues,  or  Dutch  landscapes,  or  Italian 
Madonnas  ; but,  whatever  our  choice,  we  were  therein  captive, 
barred  from  all  reverence  but  of  our  favorite  masters,  and 
habitually  using  the  language  of  contempt  towards  the  whole 
of  the  human  race  to  whom  it  had  not  pleased  Heaven  to  re- 
veal the  arcana  of  the  particular  craftsmanship  we  admired, 
and  who,  it  might  be,  had  lived  their  term  of  seventy  years 
upon  the  earth,  and  fitted  themselves  therein  for  the  eternal 
world,  without  any  clear  understanding,  sometimes  even  with 
an  insolent  disregard,  of  the  laws  of  perspective  and  chiaro- 
scuro. 

But  let  us  once  comprehend  the  holier  nature  of  the  art  of 
man,  and  begin  to  look  for  the  meaning  of  the  spirit,  however 
syllabled,  and  the  scene  is  changed  ; and  we  are  changed  also. 
Those  small  and  dexterous  creatures  whom  once  we  wor- 
shipped, those  fur-capped  divinities  with  sceptres  of  camel’s 
hair,  peering  and  poring  in  their  one-windowed  chambers  over 
the  minute  preciousness  of  the  labored  canvas  ; how  are  they 
swept  away  and  crushed  into  unnoticeable  darkness  ! And  in 
their  stead,  as  the  walls  of  the  dismal  rooms  that  enclosed 
them,  and  us,  are  struck  by  the  four  winds  of  Heaven,  and 
rent  aw^ay,  and  as  the  world  opens  to  our  sight,  lo  ! far  back 
into  all  the  depths  of  time,  and  forth  from  all  the  fields  that 
have  been  sown  with  human  life,  how  the  harvest  of  the 
dragon’s  teeth  is  springing ! how  the  companies  of  the  gods 
are  ascending  out  of  the  earth  ! The  dark  stones  that  have  so 
long  been  the  sepulchres  of  the  thoughts  of  nations,  and  the 
forgotten  ruins  wherein  their  faith  lay  charnelled,  give  up  the 
dead  that  were  in  them  ; and  beneath  the  Egyptian  ranks  of 
sultry  and  silent  rock,  and  amidst  the  dim  golden  lights 
of  the  Byzantine  dome,  and  out  of  the  confused  and  cold 
shadows  of  the  Northern  cloister,  behold,  the  multitudinous 
souls  come  forth  with  singing,  gazing  on  us  with  the  soft  eyes 
of  newly  comprehended  sympathy,  and  stretching  their  white 


CONCLUSION ; 


189 


arms  to  us  across  the  grave,  in  the  solemn  gladness  of  ever- 
lasting brotherhood. 

§ xxix.  The  other  danger  to  which,  it  was  above  said,  we 
were  primarily  exposed  under  our  present  circumstances  of 
life,  is  the  pursuit  of  vain  pleasure,  that  is  to  say.  false  pleas- 
ure ; delight,  which  is  not  indeed  delight ; as  knowledge 
vainly  accumulated,  is  not  indeed  knowledge.  And  this  we  are 
exposed  to  chiefly  in  the  fact  of  our  ceasing  to  be  children. 
For  the  child  does  not  seek  false  pleasure  ; its  pleasures  are 
true,  simple,  and  instinctive  : but  the  youth  is  apt  to  abandon 
his  early  and  true  delight  for  vanities, — seeking  to  be  like  men, 
and  sacrificing  his  natural  and  pure  enjoyments  to  his  pride. 
In  like  manner,  it  seems  to  me  that  modern  civilization  sacri- 
fices much  pure  and  true  pleasure  to  various  forms  of  osten- 
tation from  which  it  can  receive  no  fruit.  Consider,  for  a 
moment,  what  kind  of  pleasures  are  open  to  human  nature, 
undiseased.  Passing  by  the  consideration  of  the  pleasures  of 
the  higher  affections,  which  lie  at  the  root  of  everything,  and 
considering  the  definite  and  practical  pleasures  of  daily  life, 
there  is,  first,  the  pleasure  of  doing  good  ; the  greatest  of  all, 
only  apt  to  be  despised  from  not  being  often  enough  tasted  : 
and  then,  I know  not  in  what  order  to  put  them,  nor  does  it 
matter, — the  pleasure  of  gaining  knowledge  ; the  pleasure  of 
the  excitement  of  imagination  and  emotion  (or  poetry  and 
passion) ; and,  lastly,  the  gratification  of  the  senses,  first  of  the 
eye,  then  of  the  ear,  and  then  of  the  others  in  their  order. 

§ xxx.  All  these  we  are  apt  to  make  subservient  to  the  de- 
sire of  praise  ; nor  unwisely,  when  the  praise  sought  is  God's 
and  the  conscience’s  : but  if  the  sacrifice  is  made  for  man’s 
admiration,  and  knowledge  is  only  sought  for  praise,  passion 
repressed  or  affected  for  praise,  and  the  arts  practised  for 
praise,  we  are  feeding  on  the  bitterest  apples  of  Sodom,  suffer- 
ing always  ten  mortifications  for  one  delight.  And  it  seems 
to  me,  that  in  the  modern  civilized  world  we  make  such  sac- 
rifice doubly  : first,  by  laboring  for  merely  ambitious  pur- 
poses ; and  secondly,  which  is  the  main  point  in  question,  by 
being  ashamed  of  simple  pleasures,  more  especially  of  the 
pleasure  in  sweet  color  and  form,  a pleasure  evidently  so  neo 


190 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


essary  to  man's  perfectness  and  virtue,  that  the  beauty  of 
color  and  form  has  been  given  lavishly  throughout  the  whole 
of  creation,  so  that  it  may  become  the  food  of  all,  and  with 
such  intricacy  and  subtlety  that  it  may  deeply  employ  the 
thoughts  of  all.  If  we  refuse  to  accept  the  natural  delight 
which  the  Deity  has  thus  provided  for  us,  we  must  either  be- 
come ascetics,  or  we  must  seek  for  some  base  and  guilty 
pleasures  to  replace  those  of  Paradise,  which  we  have  denied 
ourselves. 

Some  years  ago,  in  passing  through  some  of  the  cells  of  the 
Grand  Chartreuse,  noticing  that  the  window  of  each  apartment 
looked  across  the  little  garden  of  its  inhabitant  to  the  wall  of 
the  cell  opposite,  and  commanded  no  other  view,  I asked  the 
monk  beside  me,  why  the  window  was  not  rather  made  on  the 
side  of  the  cell  whence  it  would  open  to  the  solemn  fields  of 
the  Alpine  valley.  “ We  do  not  come  here,”  he  replied,  “to 
look  at  the  mountains.” 

§ xxxi.  The  same  answer  is  given,  practically,  by  the  men 
of  this  century,  to  every  such  question  ; only  the  walls  with 
which  they  enclose  themselves  are  those  of  pride,  not  of  prayer. 
But  in  the  middle  ages  it  was  otherwise.  Not,  indeed, . in 
landscape  itself,  but  in  the  art  which  can  take  the  place  of  it, 
in  the  noble  color  and  form  with  which  they  illumined,  and 
into  wThich  they  wrought,  every  object  around  them  that  was 
in  any  wise  subjected  to  their  power,  they  obeyed  the  laws  of 
their  inner  nature,  and  found  its  proper  food.  The  splendor 
and  fantasy  even  of  dress,  which  in  these  days  we  pretend  to 
despise,  or  in  which,  if  we  even  indulge,  it  is  only  for  the  sake 
of  vanity,  and  therefore  to  our  infinite  harm,  were  in  those 
early  days  studied  for  love  of  their  true  beauty  and  honorable- 
ness, and  became  one  of  the  main  helps  to  dignity  of  character, 
and  courtesy  of  bearing.  Look  back  to  what  we  have  been 
told  of  the  dress  of  the  early  Venetians,  that  it  was  so  invented 
“ that  in  clothing  themselves  with  it,  they  might  clothe  them- 
selves also  with  modesty  and  honor  ; ” * consider  what  noble- 
ness of  expression  there  is  in  the  dress  of  any  of  the  portrait 
figures  of  the  great  times,  nay,  what  perfect  beauty,  and  more 
* Vol.  II.  Appendix  7. 


CONCLUSION ; 


191 


than  beauty,  there  is  in  the  folding  of  the  robe  round  the  im- 
agined form  even  of  the  saint  or  of  the  angel ; and  then  con- 
sider whether  the  grace  of  vesture  be  indeed  a thing  to  be 
despised.  We  cannot  despise  it  if  we  would  ; and  in  all  our 
highest  poetry  and  happiest  thought  we  cling  to  the  mag- 
nificence which  in  daily  life  we  disregard.  The  essence  of 
modern  romance  is  simply  the  return  of  the  heart  and  fancy 
to  the  things  in  which  they  naturally  take  pleasure  ; and  half 
the  influence  of  the  best  romances,  of  Ivanlioe,  or  Marmion, 
or  the  Crusaders,  or  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  is  completely  de- 
pendent upon  the  accessories  of  armor  and  costume.  Nay, 
more  than  this,  deprive  the  Iliad  itself  of  its  costume,  and 
consider  how  much  of  its  power  would  be  lost.  And  that  de- 
light and  reverence  which  we  feel  in,  and  by  means  of,  the 
mere  imagination  of  these  accessories,  the  middle  ages  had  in 
the  vision  of  them  ; the  nobleness  of  dress  exercising,  as  I 
have  said,  a perpetual  influence  upon  character,  tending  in  a 
thousand  ways  to  increase  dignity  and  self-respect,  and  to- 
gether with  grace  of  gesture,  to  induce  serenity  of  thought. 

§ xxxii.  I do  not  mean  merely  in  its  magnificence  ; the  most 
splendid  time  was  not  the  best  time.  It  was  still  in  the  thir- 
teenth century, — when,  as  we  have  seen,  simplicity  and  gor- 
geousness were  justly  mingled,  and  the  “leathern  girdle  and 
clasp  of  bone”  were  worn,  as  well  as  the  embroidered  mantle, 
— that  the  manner  of  dress  seems  to  have  been  noblest.  The 
chain  mail  of  the  knight,  flowing  and  falling  over  his  form  in 
lapping  waves  of  gloomy  strength,  was  worn  under  full  robes 
of  one  color  in  the  ground,  his  crest  quartered  on  them,  and 
their*  borders  enriched  with  subtle  illumination.  The  women 
wore  first  a dress  close  to  the  form  in  like  manner,  and  then 
long  and  flowing  robes,  veiling  them  up  to  the  neck,  and 
delicately  embroidered  around  the  hem,  the  sleeves,  and  the 
girdle.  The  use  of  plate  armor  gradually  introduced  more 
fantastic  types  ; the  nobleness  of  the  form  was  lost  beneath 
the  steel  ; the  gradually  increasing  luxury  and  vanity  of  the 
age  strove  for  continual  excitement  in  more  quaint  and  ex- 
travagant devices  ; and  in  the  fifteenth  century,  dress  reached 
its  point  of  utmost  splendor  and  fancy,  being  in  many  cases 


192 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


still  exquisitely  graceful,  but  now,  in  its  morbid  magnificence, 
devoid  of  all  wholesome  influence  on  manners.  From  this 
point,  like  architecture,  it  was  rapidly  degraded  ; and  sank 
through  the  buff  coat,  and  lace  collar,  and  jack-boot,  to  the 
bag-wig,  tailed  coat,  and  high-heeled  shoes  ; and  so  to-  what 
it  is  now. 

§ xxxiii.  Precisely  analogous  to  this  destruction  of  beauty 
in  dress,  has  been  that  of  beauty  in  architecture  ; its  color, 
and  grace,  and  fancy,  being  gradually  sacrificed  to  the  base 
forms  of  the  Renaissance,  exactly  as  the  splendor  of  chivalry 
has  faded  into  the  paltriness  of  fashion.  And  observe  the 
form  in  which  the  necessary  reaction  has  taken  place  ; neces- 
sary, for  it  was  not  possible  that  one  of  the  strongest  instincts 
of  the  human  race  could  be  deprived  altogether  of  its  natural 
food.  Exactly  in  the  degree  that  the  architect  withdrew  from 
his  buildings  the  sources  of  delight  which  in  early  days  they 
had  so  richly  possessed,  demanding,  in  accordance  with  the 
new  principles  of  taste,  the  banishment  of  all  happy  color  and 
healthy  invention,  in  that  degree  the  minds  of  men  began  to 
turn  to  landscape  as  their  only  resource.  The  picturesque 
school  of  art  rose  up  to  address  those  capacities  of  enjoyment 
for  which,  in  sculpture,  architecture,  or  the  higher  walks  of 
painting,  there  was  employment  no  more  ; and  the  shadows 
of  Rembrandt,  and  savageness  of  Salvator,  arrested  the  ad- 
miration which  was  no  longer  permitted  to  be  rendered  to  the 
gloom  or  the  grotesqueness  of  the  Gothic  aisle.  And  thus  the 
English  school  of  landscape,  culminating  in  Turner,  is  in 
reality  nothing  else  than  a healthy  effort  to  fill  the  void  which 
the  destruction  of  Gothic  architecture  has  left. 

§ xxxiv.  But  the  void  cannot  thus  be  completely  filled  ; no, 
nor  filled  in  any  considerable  degree.  The  art  of  landscape- 
painting will  never  become  thoroughly  interesting  or  suffic- 
ing to  the  minds  of  men  engaged  in  active  life,  or  concerned 
principally  with  practical  subjects.  The  sentiment  and  imag- 
ination necessary  to  enter  fully  into  the  romantic  forms  of  art 
are  chiefly  the  characteristics  of  youth  ; so  that  nearly  all  men 
as  they  advance  in  years,  and  some  even  from  their  childhood 
upwards,  must  be  appealed  to,  if  at  all,  by  a direct  and  sub. 


CONCLUSION, ; 


193 


stantial  art,  brought  before  their  daily  observation  and  con- 
nected with  their  daily  interests.  No  form  of  art  answers 
these  conditions  so  well  as  architecture,  which,  as  it  can  receive 
help  from  every  character  of  mind  in  the  workman,  can  ad- 
dress every  character  of  mind  in  the  spectator  ; forcing  itself 
into  notice  even  in  his  most  languid  moments,  and  possessing 
this  chief  and  peculiar  advantage,  that  it  is  the  property  of 
all  men.  Pictures  and  statues  may  be  jealously  withdrawn 
by  their  possessors  from  the  public  gaze,  and  to  a certain  de- 
gree their  safety  requires  them  to  be  so  withdrawn  ; but  the 
outsides  of  our  houses  belong  not  so  much  to  us  as  to  the 
passer-by,  and  whatever  cost  and  pains  we  bestow  upon  them, 
though  too  often  arising  out  of  ostentation,  have  at  least  the 
effect  of  benevolence. 

§ xxxv.  If,  then,  considering  these  things,  any  of  my  readers 
should  determine,  according  to  their  means,  to  set  themselves 
to  the  revival  of  a healthy  school  of  architecture  in  England, 
and  wish  to  know  in  few  words  how  this  may  be  done,  the 
answer  is  clear  and  simple.  First,  let  us  cast  out  utterly 
whatever  is  connected  with  the  Greek,  Roman,  or  Renaissance 
architecture,  in  principle  or  in  form.  We  have  seen  above, 
that  the  whole  mass  of  the  architecture,  founded  on  Greek 
and  Roman  models,  which  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  build- 
ing for  the  last  three  centuries,  is  utterly  devoid  of  all  life, 
virtue,  honorableness,  or  power  of  doing  good.  It  is  base, 
unnatural,  unfruitful,  unenjoyable,  and  impious.  Pagan  in  its 
origin,  proud  and  unholy  in  its  revival,  paralyzed  in  its  old 
age,  yet  making  prey  in  its  dotage  of  all  the  good  and  living 
things  that  were  springing  around  it  in  their  youth,  as  the 
dying  and  desperate  king,  who  had  long  fenced  himself  so 
strongly  with  the  towers  of  it,  is  said  to  have  filled  his  failing 
veins  with  the  blood  of  children  ; * an  architecture  invented, 

* Louis  the  Eleventh.  4 ‘In  the<monthof  March,  1481,  Louis  was 
seized  with  a fit  of  apoplexy  at  St.  Benoit-dLu-lac-mort , near  Chinon.  He 
remained  speechless  and  bereft  of  reason  three  days ; and  then  but 
very  imperfectly  restored,  he  languished  in  a miserable  state. 

To  cure  liim,?’  says  a contemporary  historian,  “ wonderful  and  terrible 
medicines  were  compounded.  It  was  reported  among  the  people  that 
Vol.  III. — 13 


194 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 


as  it  seems,  to  make  plagiarists  of  its  architects,  slaves  of  its 
workmen,  and  Sybarites  of  its  inhabitants ; an  architecture  in 
which  intellect  is  idle,  invention  impossible,  but  in  which  all 
luxury  is  gratified,  and  all  insolence  fortified  ; — the  first  thing 
we  have  to  do  is  to  cast  it  out,  and  shake  the  dust  of  it  from 
our  feet  for  ever.  Whatever  has  any  connexion  with  the  five 
orders,  or  with  any  one  of  the  orders, — whatever  is  Doric,  or 
Ionic,  or  Tuscan,  or  Corinthian,  or  Composite,  or  in  any  way 
Grecized  or  Romanized  ; whatever  betrays  the  smallest  re- 
spect for  Yitruvian  laws,  or  conformity  with  Palladian  work, 

- — that  we  are  to  endure  no  more.  To  cleanse  ourselves  of 
these  “ cast  clouts  and  rotten  rags  ” is  the  first  thing  to  be. 
done  in  the  court  of  our  prison. 

§ xxxvi.  Then,  to  turn  our  prison  into  a palace  is  an  easy 
thing.  We  have  seen  above,  that  exactly  in  the  degree  in 
which  Greek  and  Roman  architecture  is  lifeless,  unprofitable, 
and  unchristian,  in  that  same  degree  our  own  ancient  Gothic 
is  animated,  serviceable  and  faithful.  We  have  seen  that  it  is 
flexible  to  all  duty,  enduring  to  all  time,  instructive  to  all 
hearts,  honorable  and  holy  in  all  offices.  It  is  capable  alike 
of  all  lowliness  and  all  dignity,  fit  alike  for  cottage  porch  or 
castle  gateway  ; in  domestic  service  familiar,  in  religious,  sub- 
lime ; simple,  and  playful,  so  that  childhood  may  read  it,  yet 
clothed  with  a power  that  can  awe  the  mightiest,  and  exalt 
the  loftiest  of  human  spirits  : an  architecture  that  kindles 
every  faculty  in  its  workman,  and  addresses  every  emotion  in 
its  beholder  ; which,  v^ith  every  stone  that  is  laid  on  its  sol- 
emn walls,  raises  some  human  heart  a step  nearer  heaven,  and 
which  from  its  birth  has  been  incorporated  with  the  existence, 
and  in  all  its  form  is  symbolical  of  the  faith,  of  Christianit}r. 
In  this  architecture  let  us  henceforward  build,  alike  the  church, 
the  palace,  and  the  cottage  ; but  chiefly  let  us  use  it  for  our 
civil  and  domestic  buildings.  These  once  ennobled,  our  ec- 
clesiastical work  will  be  exalted  together  with  them  : but 
churches  are  not  the  proper  scenes  for  experiments  in  untried 

liis  physicians  opened  the  veins  of  little  children,  and  made  him  drink 
their  blood,  to  correct  the  poorness  of  his  own.” — Bussey’s  History  oj 
France.  London,  1850. 


CONCLUSION. 


195 


architecture,  nor  for  exhibitions  of  unaccustomed  beauty.  It 
is  certain  that  we  must  often  fail  before  we  can  again  build  a 
natural  and  noble  Gothic  : let  not  our  temples  be  the  scenes 
of  our  failures.  It  is  certain  that  we  must  offend  many  deep- 
rooted  prejudices,  before  ancient  Christian  architecture  * can 
be  again  received  by  all  of  us  : let  not  religion  be  the  first 
source  of  such  offence.  We  shall  meet  with  difficulties  in  ap- 
plying Gothic  architecture  to  churches,  which  would  in  no 
wise  affect  the  designs  of  civil  buildings,  for  the  most  beauti- 
ful forms  of  Gothic  chapels  are  not  those  which  are  best  fitted 
for  Protestant  worship.  As  it  was  noticed  in  the  second  vol- 
ume, when  speaking  of  the  Cathedral  of  Torcello  it  seems  not 
unlikely,  that  as  we  study  either  the  science  of  sound,  or  the 
practice  of  the  early  Christians,  we  may  see  reason  to  place 
the  pulpit  generally  at  the  extremity  of  the  apse  or  chancel ; 
an  arrangement  entirely  destructive  of  the  beauty  of  a Gothic 
church,  as  seen  in  existing  examples,  and  requiring  modifica- 
tions of  its  design  in  other  parts  with  which  we  should  be 
unwise  at  present  to  embarrass  ourselves  ; besides,  that  the 
effort  to  introduce  the  style  exclusively  for  ecclesiastical  pur- 
poses, excites  against  it  the  strong  prejudices  of  many  persons 
who  might  otherwise  be  easily  enlisted  among  its  most  ardent 
advocates.  I am  quite  sure,  for  instance,  that  if  such  noble 
architecture  as  has  been  employed  for  the  interior  of  the 
church  just  built  in  Margaret  Street*)*  had  been  seen  in  a 
civil  building,  it  would  have  decided  the  question  with  many 
men  at  once  ; whereas,  at  present,  it  will  be  looked  upon  with 
fear  and  suspicion,  as  the  expression  of  the  ecclesiastical  prin- 

* Observe,  I call  Gothic  1 ‘ Christian  ” architecture,  not  “ ecclesiastical.  ” 
There  is  a wide  difference.  I believe  it  is  the  only  architecture  which 
Christian  men  should  build,  but  not  at  all  an  architecture  necessarily 
connected  with  the  services  of  their  church. 

f Mr.  Hope’s  Church,  in  Margaret  Street,  Portland  Place.  I do  not 
altogether  like  the  arrangements  of  color  in  the  brickwork  ; but  these 
will  hardly  attract  the  eye,  where  so  much  has  been  already  done  with 
precious  and  beautiful  marble,  and  is  yet  to  be  done  in  fresco.  Much 
will  depend,  however,  upon  the  coloring  of  this  latter  portion.  I wish 
that  either  Holman  Hunt  or  Millais  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  do  at 
least  some  of  these  smaller  frescoes. 


196 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ciples  of  a particular  party.  But,  whether  thus  regarded  or 
not,  this  church  assuredly  decides  one  question  conclusively, 
that  of  our  present  capability  of  Gothic  design.  It  is  the  first 
piece  of  architecture  I have  seen,  built  in  modern  days,  which 
is  free  from  all  signs  of  timidity  or  incapacity.  In  general 
proportion  of  parts,  in  refinement  and  piquancy  of  mouldings, 
above  all,  in  force,  vitality,  and  grace  of  floral  ornament, 
worked  in  a broad  and  masculine  manner,  it  challenges  fear- 
less comparison  with  the  noblest  work  of  any  time.  Having 
done  this,  we  may  do  anything  ; there  need  be  no  limits  to 
our  hope  or  our  confidence  ; and  I believe  it  to  be  possible 
for  us,  not  only  to  equal,  but  far  to  surpass,  in  some  respects, 
any  Gothic  yet  seen  in  Northern  countries.  In  the  introduc- 
tion of  figure-sculpture,  we  must,  indeed,  for  the  present,  re- 
main utterly  inferior,  for  we  have  no  figures  to  study  from. 
No  architectural  sculpture  was  ever  good  for  anything  which 
did  not  represent  the  dress  and  persons  of  the  people  living 
at  the  time  ; and  our  modern  dress  will  not  form  decorations 
for  spandrils  and  niches.  But  in  floral  sculpture  we  may  go 
far  beyond  what  has  yet  been  done,  as  well  as  in  refinement 
of  inlaid  work  and  general  execution.  For,  although  the 
glory  of  Gothic  architecture  is  to  receive  the  rudest  work,  it 
refuses  not  the  best ; and,  when  once  we  have  been  content 
to  admit  the  handling  of  the  simplest  workman,  we  shall  soon 
be  rewarded  by  finding  many  of  our  simple  workmen  become 
cunning  ones : and,  with  the  help  of  modern  wealth  and  sci- 
ence, we  may  do  things  like  Giotto’s  campanile,  instead  of  like 
our  own  rude  cathedrals  ; but  better  than  Giotto’s  campanile, 
insomuch  as  we  may  adopt  the  pure  and  perfect  forms  of  the 
Northern  Gothic,  and  work  them  out  with  the  Italian  refine- 
ment. It  is  hardly  possible  at  present  to  imagine  what  may 
be  the  splendor  of  buildings  designed  in  the  forms  of  English 
and  French  thirteenth  century  surface  Gothic,  and  wrought 
out  with  the  refinement  of  Italian  art  in  the  details,  and  with 
a deliberate  resolution,  since  we  cannot  have  figure  sculpture, 
to  display  in  them  the  beauty  of  every  flower  and  herb  of  the 
English  fields,  each  by  each  ; doing  as  much  for  every  tree 
that  roots  itself  in  our  rocks,  and  every  blossom  that  drinks 


CONCLUSION. 


197 


our  summer  rains,  as  our  ancestors  dicl  for  the  oak,  the  ivy, 
and  the  rose.  Let  this  be  the  object  of  our  ambition,  and  let 
us  begin  to  approach  it,  not  ambitiously,  but  in  all  humility, 
accepting  help  from  the  feeblest  hands  ; and  the  London  of 
the  nineteenth  century  may  yet  become  as  Venice  without  her 
despotism,  and  as  Florence  without  her  dispeace. 


APPENDIX 


1.  ARCHITECT  OF  THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 

Popular  tradition  and  a large  number  of  the  chroniclers 
ascribe  the  building  of  the  Ducal  Palace  to  that  Filippo  Cal- 
endario  who  suffered  death  for  his  share  in  the  conspiracy  of 
Faliero.  He  was  certainly  one  of  the  leading  architects  of  the 
time,  and  had  for  several  years  the  superintendence  of  the 
works  of  the  Palace  ; but  it  appears,  from  the  documents  col- 
lected by  the  Abbe  Cadorin,  that  the  first  designer  of  the  Pal- 
ace, the  man  to  whom  we  owe  the  adaptation  of  the  Frari 
traceries  to  civil  architecture,  was  Pietro  Baseggio,  who  is 
spoken  of  expressly  as  “ formerly  the  Chief  Master  of  our  New 
Palace,”  * in  the  decree  of  1361,  quoted  by  Cadorin,  and  who, 
at  his  death,  left  Calendario  his  executor.  Other  documents 
collected  by  Zanotto,  in  his  work  on  “ Venezia  e le  sue  La- 
gune,”  show  that  Calendario  was  for  a long  time  at  sea,  under 
the  commands  of  the  Signory,  returning  to  Venice  only  three 
or  four  years  before  his  death  ; and  that  therefore  the  entire 
management  of  the  works  of  the  Palace,  in  the  most  important 
period,  must  have  been  entrusted  to  Baseggio. 

It  is  quite  impossible,  however,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
Palace,  to  distinguish  one  architect’s  work  from  another  in  the 
older  parts  ; and  I have  not  in  the  text  embarrassed  the  reader 
by  any  attempt  at  close  definition  of  epochs  before  the  great 
junction  of  the  Piazzetta  Fa9ade  with  the  older  palace  in  the 
fifteenth  century.  Here,  however,  it  is  necessary  that  I should 
briefly  state  the  observations  I was  able  to  make  on  the  rela- 
tive dates  of  the  earlier  portions. 

* “ Olim  magistri  protlii  palatii  nostri  novi.” — Cadorin , p.  127. 


200 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


In  the  description  of  the  Fig-tree  angle,  given  in  the  eighth 
chapter  of  Yol.  II.,  I said  that  it  seemed  to  me  somewhat 
earlier  than  that  of  the  Vine,  and  the  reader  might  be  sur- 
prised at  the  apparent  opposition  of  this  statement  to  my  sup- 
position that  the  Palace  was  built  gradually  round  from  the 
Rio  Fa9ade  to  the  Piazzetta.  But  in  the  two  great  open  ar- 
cades there  is  no  succession  of  work  traceable  ; from  the  Vine 
angle  to  the  junction  with  the  fifteenth  century  work,  above 
and  below,  all  seems  nearly  of  the  same  date,  the  only  ques- 
tion being  of  the  accidental  precedence  of  workmanship  of 
one  capital  or  another ; and  I think,  from  its  style,  that  the 
Fig-tree  angle  must  have  been  first  completed.  But  in  the 
upper  stories  of  the  Palace  there  are  enormous  differences  of 
style.  On  the  Rio  Fa£ade,  in  the  upper  story,  are  several, 
series  of  massive  windows  of  the  third  order,  corresponding 
exactly  in  mouldings  and  manner  of  workmanship  to  those  of 
the  chapter-house  of  the  Frari,  and  consequently  carrying  us 
back  to  a very  early  date  in  the  fourteenth  century  : several 
of  the  capitals  of  these  windows,  and  two  richly  sculptured 
string-courses  in  the  wall  below,  are  of  Byzantine  workman- 
ship, and  in  all  probability  fragments  of  the  Ziani  Palace.  The 
traceried  windows  on  the  Rio  Facade,  and  the  two  eastern 
windows  on  the  Sea  Fa9ade,  are  all  of  the  finest  early  four- 
teenth century  wrork,  masculine  and  noble  in  their  capitals 
and  bases  to  the  highest  degree,  and  evidently  contemporary 
with  the  very  earliest  portions  of  the  lower  arcades.  But  the 
moment  we  come  to  the  windows  of  the  Great  Council  Cham- 
ber the  style  is  debased.  The  mouldings  are  the  same,  but 
they  are  coarsely  worked,  and  the  heads  set  amidst  the  leaf- 
age of  the  capitals  quite  valueless  and  vile. 

I have  not  the  least  doubt  that  these  window-jambs  and 
traceries  were  restored  after  the  great  fire  ; * and  various  other 
restorations  have  taken  place  since,  beginning  with  the  re- 
moval of  the  traceries  from  all  the  windows  except  the  north- 

* A print,  dated  1585,  barbarously  inaccurate,  as  all  prints  were  at 
that  time,  but  still  in  some  respects  to  be  depended  upon,  represents  all 
the  windows  on  the  Facade  full  of  traceries  ; and  the  circles  above,  be- 
tween them,  occupied  by  quartrefoils. 


APPENDIX. 


201 


ern  one  of  the  Sala  del  Scrutinio,  behind  the  Porta  della 
Carta,  where  they  are  still  left.  I made  out  four  periods  of 
restoration  among  these  windows,  each  baser  than  the  preced- 
ing. It  is  not  worth  troubling  the  reader  about  them,  but 
the  traveller  who  is  interested  in  the  subject  may  compare 
two  of  them  in  the  same  window ; the  one  nearer  the  sea  of 
the  two  belonging  to  the  little  room  at  the  top  of  the  Palace 
on  the  Piazzetta  Fa9ade,  between  the  Sala  del  Gran  Consiglio 
and  that  of  the  Scrutinio.  The  seaward  jamb  of  that  window 
is  of  the  first,  and  the  opposite  jamb  of  the  second,  period 
of  these  restorations.  These  are  all  the  points  of  separation 
in  date  which  I could  discover  by  internal  evidence.  But 
much  more  might  be  made  out  by  any  Venetian  antiquary 
whose  time  permitted  him  thoroughly  to  examine  any  exist- 
ing documents  which  allude  to  or  describe  the  parts  of  the 
Palace  spoken  of  in  the  important  decrees  of  1340,  1342,  and 
1344  ; for  the  first  of  these  decrees  speaks  of  certain  “ col- 
umns looking  towards  the  Canal  ” * or  sea,  as  then  existing, 
and  I presume  these  columns  to  have  been  part  of  the  Ziani 
Palace,  corresponding  to  the  part  of  that  palace  on  the  Piaz- 
zetta where  were  the  “ red  columns  ” between  which  Calen- 
dario  was  executed  ; and  a great  deal  more  might  be  deter- 
mined by  any  one  who  would  thoroughly  unravel  the  obscure 
language  of  those  decrees. 

Meantime,  in  order  to  complete  the  evidence  respecting  the 
main  dates  stated  in  the  text,  I have  collected  here  such  no- 
tices of  the  building  of  the  Ducal  Palace  as  appeared  to  me 
of  most  importance  in  the  various  chronicles  I examined.  I 
could  not  give  them  all  in  the  text,  as  they  repeat  each  other, 
and  would  have  been  tedious  ; but  they  will  be  interesting  to 
the  antiquary,  and  it  is  to  be  especially  noted  in  all  of  them 
how  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  is  invariably  distinguished,  either  di- 
rectly or  by  implication,  from  the  Palazzo  Nuovo.  I shall  first 
translate  the  piece  of  the  Zancarol  Chronicle  given  by  Cadorin, 
which  has  chiefly  misled  the  Venetian  antiquaries.  I wrish  I 
could  put  the  rich  old  Italian  into  old  English,  but  must  be 

* “Lata  tanto,  quantum  est  ambulum  existens  super  columnis  versus 
canale  respicientibus.  ” 


202 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


content  to  lose  its  raciness,  as  it  is  necessary  that  the  reader 
should  be  fully  acquainted  with  its  facts. 

“ It  was  decreed  that  none  should  dare  to  propose  to  the 
Signory  of  Venice  to  ruin  the  old  palace  and  rebuild  it  new 
and  more  richly,  and  there  was  a penalty  of  one  thousand 
ducats  against  any  one  who  should  break  it.  Then  the  Doge, 
wishing  to  set  forward  the  public  good,  said  to  the  Signory, 

. . . that  they  ought  to  rebuild  the  fayades  of  the  old  pal- 

ace, and  that  it  ought  to  be  restored,  to  do  honor  to  the 
nation  : and  so  soon  as  he  had  done  speaking,  the  Avogadori 
demanded  the  penalty  from  the  Doge,  for  having  disobeyed 
the  law  ; and  the  Doge  with  ready  mind  paid  it,  remaining  in 
his  opinion  that  the  said  fabric  ought  to  be  built.  And  so,  in 
the  year  1422,  on  the  20th  day  of  September,  it  was  passed  in 
the  Council  of  the  Pregadi  that  the  said  new  palace  should  be 
begun,  and  the  expense  should  be  borne  by  the  Signori  del  Sal  ; 
and  so,  on  the  24th  day  of  March,  1424,  it  was  begun  to  throw 
down  the  old  palace,  and  to  build  it  anew.” — Cadorin , p.  129. 

The  day  of  the  month,  and  the  council  in  which  the  decree 
was  passed,  are  erroneously  given  by  this  Chronicle.  Cadorin 
has  printed  the  words  of  the  decree  itself,  which  passed  in  the 
Great  Council  on  the  27th  September  : and  these  words  are, 
fortunately,  much  to  our  present  purpose.  For  as  more  than 
one  fa9ade  is  spoken  of  in  the  above  extract,  the  Marchese  Sel- 
vatico  was  induced  to  believe  that  both  the  front  to  the  sea 
and  that  to  the  Piazzetta  had  been  destroyed  ; whereas,  the 
“ fa9ades 99  spoken  of  are  evidently  those  of  the  Ziani  Palace. 
For  the  words  of  the  decree  (which  are  much  more  trustworthy 
than  those  of  the  Chronicle,  even  if  there  were  any  inconsistency 
between  them)  run  thus  : “ Palatium  nostrum  fabricetur  et  fiat 
in  forma  decora  et  convenienti,  quod  respondeat  solemnissimo 
principio  palatii  nostri  novi”  Thus  the  new  council  chamber 
and  fa9ade  to  the  sea  are  called  the  most  “ venerable  beginning 
of  our  New  Palace  ; ” and  the  rest  was  ordered  to  be  designed 
in  accordance  with  these,  as  was  actually  the  case  as  far  as  the 
Porta  della  Carta.  But  the  Benaissance  architects  who  thence- 
forward proceeded  with  the  fabric,  broke  through  the  design, 
and  built  everything  else  according  to  their  own  humors. 


APPENDIX. 


205 


quella  parte  che  e sopra  la  piaza,”  &c.,  the  writers  being  cau- 
tious, in  all  these  instances,  to  limit  their  statement  to  the  part 
facing  the  Piazza,  that  no  reader  might  suppose  the  Council 
Chamber  to  have  been  built  or  begun  at  the  same  time ) 
though,  as  long  as  to  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  we  find 
the  Council  Chamber  still  included  in  the  expression  “Palazzo 
Nuovo.”  Thus,  in  the  MS.  No.  75  in  the  Correr  Museum, 
which  is  about  that  date,  we  have  “Del  1422,  a di  20  Settem- 
bre  fu  preso  nel  consegio  grando  de  dover  compir  el  Palazo 
Novo,  e dovesen  fare  la  spessa  li  officialli  del  Sal  (61.  M.  2. 
B.).”  And,  so  long  as  this  is  the  case,  the  “ Palazzo  Vecchio” 
always  means  the  Ziani  Palace.  Thus,  in  the  next  page  of 
this  same  MS.  we  have  “a  di  27  Marzo  (1424  by  context)  fo 
principia  a butar  zosso,  el  Palazzo  Vecchio  per  refarlo  da  novo, 
e poi  se  he”  (and  so  it  is  done) ; and  in  the  MS.  No.  81,  “Del 
1424,  fo  gittado  zoso  el  Palazzo  Vecchio  per  refarlo  de  nuovo, 
a di  27  Marzo.”  But  in  the  time  of  Sansovino  the  Ziani  Palace 
was  quite  forgotten  ; the  Council  Chamber  was  then  the  old 
palace,  and  Foscari’s  part  was  the  new.  His  account  of  the 
“Palazzo  Publico”  will  no.w  be  perfectly  intelligible  ; but,  as 
the  work  itself  is  easily  accessible,  I shall  not  burden  the 
reader  with  any  farther  extracts,  only  noticing  that  the 
chequering  of  the  fa9ade  with  red  and  white  marbles,  which 
he  ascribes  to  Foscari,  may  or  may  not  be  of  so  late  a date, 
as  there  is  nothing  in  the  style  of  the  work  which  can  be 
produced  as  evidence. 

2.  THEOLOGY  OF  SPENSER. 

The  following  analysis  of  the  first  books  of  the  “Faerie 
Queen,”  may  be  interesting  to  readers  who  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  reading  the  noble  poem  too  hastily  to  connect  its 
parts  completely  together  ; and  may  perhaps  induce  them  to 
more  careful  study  of  the  rest  of  the  poem. 

The  Redcrosse  Knight  is  Holiness, — the  “Pietas”  of  St. 
Mark’s,  the  “ Devotio  ” of  Orcagna, — meaning,  I think,  in  gen- 
eral, Reverence  and  Godly  Fear. 

This  Virtue,  in  the  opening  of  the  book,  has  Truth  (oi  Una) 


204 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


pagado  la  spexa  per  li  officiali  del  sal.  E fuo  fatto  per  sovra- 
stante  G.  Nicolo  Barberigo  cum  provision  de  ducati  X doro  al 
inexe  e fuo  fabricado  e fatto  nobelissimo.  Come  fin  ancho  di 
el  sta  e fuo  grande  honor  a la  Signoria  de  Venesia  e a la  sua 
Citta.” 

This  entry,  which  itself  bears  no  date,  but  comes  between 
others  dated  22d  July  and  27th  December,  is  interesting,  be- 
cause it  shows  the  first  transition  of  the  idea  of  newness , from 
the  Grand  Council  Chamber  to  the  part  built  under  Foscari. 
For  when  Mocenigo’s  wishes  had  been  fulfilled,  and  the  old 
palace  of  Ziani  had  been  destroyed,  and  another  built  in  its 
stead,  the  Great  Council  Chamber,  which  was  “the  new  palace’’ 
compared  with  Ziani’s,  became  “ the  old  palace  ” compared 
with  Foscari’s  ; and  thus  we  have,  in  the  body  of  the  above 
extract,  the  whole  building  called  “the  new  palace  of  Venice 
but  in  the  heading  of  it,  we  have  “the  new  part  of  the  palace” 
applied  to  the  part  built  by  Foscari,  in  contradistinction  to 
the  Council  Chamber. 

The  next  entry  I give  is  important,  because  the  writing  of 
the  MS.  in  which  it  occurs,  No.  53  in  the  Correr  Museum, 
shows  it  to  be  probably  not  later  than  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century  : 

“El  palazo  nuovo  de  Venixia  zoe  quella  parte  che  se  sora  la 
piazza  verso  la  giesia  di  Miss.  San  Marcho  del  1422  fo  princi- 
piado,  el  qual  fo  fato  e finito  molto  belo,  chome  al  presente  se 
vede  nobilissimo,  et  a la  fabricha  de  quello  fo  deputado  Miss. 
Nicolo  Barberigo,  soprastante  con  ducati  dieci  doro  al  mexe.” 

We  have  here  the  part  built  by  Foscari  distinctly  called  the 
Palazzo  Nuovo,  as  opposed  to  the  Great  Council  Chamber, 
which  had  now  completely  taken  the  position  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  and  is  actually  so  called  by  Sansovino.  In  the  copy 
of  the  Chronicle  of  Paolo  Morosini,  and'  in  the  MSS.  num- 
bered respectively  57,  59,  74,  and  76  in  the  Correr  Museum, 
the  passage  above  given  from  No.  53  is  variously  repeated 
with  slight  modifications  and  curtailments  ; the  entry  in  the 
Morosini  Chronicle  being  headed  “Come  fu  principiato  il  pal- 
azo che  guarda  sopra  la  piaza  grande  di  S.  Marco,”  and  pro- 
ceeding in  the  words,  “El  Palazo  Nuovo  di  Venetia,  cioe 


APPENDIX. 


203 


The  question  may  be  considered  as  set  at  rest  by  these 
words  of  the  decree,  even  without  any  internal  or  any  farther 
documentary  evidence.  But  rather  for  the  sake  of  impressing 
the  facts  thoroughly  on  the  reader’s  mind,  than  of  any  addi- 
tional proof,  I shall  quote  a few  more  of  the  best  accredited 
Chronicles. 

The  passage  given  by  Bettio,  from  the  Sivos  Chronicle,  is  a 
very  important  parallel  with  that  from  the  Zancarol  above  : 

“ Essendo  molto  vecchio,  e quasi  rovinoso  el  Palazzo  sopra 
la  piazza,  fo  deliberato  di  far  quella  parte  tutta  da  novo,  et  con- 
tinuarla  com’  e quella  della  Sala  grande,  et  cosi  il  Lunedi  27 
Marzo  1424  fu  dato  principio  a ruinare  detto  Palazzo  vecchio 
dalla  parte,  ch’  e verso  panateria  cioe  della  Giustizia,  ch’  e 
nelli  occlii  di  sopra  le  colonne  fino  alia  Chiesa  et  fo  fatto  anco 
la  porta  grande,  com’  e al  presente,  con  la  sala  che  si  addi- 
manda  la  Libraria.”  * 

We  have  here  all  the  facts  told  us  in  so  many  words  : the 
“old  palace”  is  definitely  stated  to  have  been  “on  the  piazza,” 
and  it  is  to  be  rebuilt  “like  the  part  of  the  great  saloon.” 
The  very  point  from  which  the  newer  buildings  commenced 
is  told  us  ; but  here  the  chronicler  has  carried  his  attempt  at 
accuracy  too  far.  The  point  of  junction  is,  as  stated  above, 
at  the  third  pillar  beyond  the  medallion  of  Venice  ; and  I am 
much  at  a loss  to  understand  what  could  have  been  the  dis- 
position of  these  three  pillars  where  they  joined  the  Ziani 
Palace,  and  how  they  were  connected  with  the  arcade  of  the 
inner  cortile.  But  with  these  difficulties,  as  they  do  not  bear 
on  the  immediate  question,  it  is  of  no  use  to  trouble  the 
reader. 

The  next  passage  I shall  give  is  from  a Chronicle  in  the 
Marcian  Library,  bearing  title,  “ Supposta  di  Zancaruol ; ” but 
in  which  I could  not  find  the  passage  given  by  Cadorin  from, 
I believe,  a manuscript  of  this  Chronicle  at  Vienna.  There 
occurs  instead  of  it  the  following  thus  headed  : — 

“Come  la  parte  nova  del  Palazzo  fuo  liedificata  novamente . 

“ El  Palazzo  novo  de  Venesia  quella  parte  che  xe  verso  la 
Chiesia  de  S.  Marclio  fuo  prexo  cliel  se  fesse  del  1422  e fosse 
* Bettio,  p.  28. 


206 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


at  its  side,  but  presently  enters  tlie  Wandering  Wood,  and 
encounters  the  serpent  Error ; that  is  to  say,  Error  in  her 
universal  form,  the  first  enemy  of  Reverence  and  Holiness  ; 
and  more  especially  Error  as  founded  on  learning  ; for  when 
Holiness  strangles  her, 

“ Her  vomit  full  ofbookes  and  papers  was , 

With  loathly  frogs  and  toades,  which  eyes  did  lacke.” 

Having  vanquished  this  first  open  and  palpable  form  of 
Error,  as  Eeverence  and  Eeligion  must  always  vanquish  it, 
the  Knight  encounters  Hypocrisy,  or  Archimagus  : Holiness 
cannot  detect  Hypocrisy,  but  believes  him,  and  goes  home 
with  him  ; whereupon  Hypocrisy  succeeds  in  separating  Holi- 
ness from  Truth  ; and  the  Knight  (Holiness)  and  Lady  (Truth) 
go  forth  separately  from  the  house  of  Archimagus. 

Now  observe  : the  moment  Godly  Fear,  or  Holiness,  is  sep- 
arated from  Truth,  he  meets  Infidelity,  or  the  Knight  Sans 
Foy  ; Infidelity  having  Falsehood,  or  Duessa,  riding  behind 
him.  The  instant  the  Red crosse  Knight  is  aware  of  the  at- 
tack of  Infidelity,  he 

“ Gan  fairly  couch,  his  speare,  and  towards  ride.” 

He  vanquishes  and  slays  Infidelity  ; but  is  deceived  by  his 
companion,  Falsehood,  and  takes  her  for  his  lady  : thus  show- 
ing the  condition  of  Eeligion,  when,  after  being  attacked  by 
Doubt,  and  remaining  victorious,  it  is  nevertheless  seduced, 
by  any  form  of  Falsehood,  to  pay  reverence  where  it  ought 
not.  This,  then,  is  the  first  fortune  of  Godly  Fear  separated 
from  Truth.  The  poet  then  returns  to  Truth,  separated  from 
Godly  Fear.  She  is  immediately  attended  by  a lion,  or  Vio- 
lence, which  makes  her  dreaded  wherever  she  comes  ; and 
when  she  enters  the  mart  of  Superstition,  this  Lion  tears 
Kirkrapine  in  pieces : showing  how  Truth,  separated  from 
Godliness,  does  indeed  put  an  end  to  the  abuses  of  Supersti- 
tion, but  does  so  violently  and  desperately.  She  then  meets 
again  with  Hypocrisy,  whom  she  mistakes  for  her  own  lord, 
or  Godly  Fear,  and  travels  a little  way  under  his  guardian- 


APPENDIX. 


207 


ship  (Hypocrisy  thus  not  unfrequently  appearing  to  defend 
the  Truth),  until  they  are  both  met  by  Lawlessness,  or  the 
Knight  Sans  Loy,  whom  Hypocrisy  cannot  resist.  Lawless- 
ness overthrows  Hypocrisy,  and  seizes  upon  Truth,  first  slay- 
ing her  lion  attendant : showing  that  the  first  aim  of  license 
is  to  destroy  the  force  and  authority  of  Truth.  Sans  Loy 
then  takes  Truth  captive,  and  bears  her  away.  Nov/  this 
Lawlessness  is  the  “ unrighteousness,”  or  “ adikia,”  of  St. 
Paul  ; and  his  bearing  Truth  away  captive,  is  a type  of  those 
“who  hold  the  truth  in  unrighteousness,” — that  is  to  say,  gen- 
erally, of  men  who,  knowing  what  is  true,  make  the  truth  give 
way  to  their  own  purposes,  or  use  it  only  to  forward  them,  as 
is  the  case  with  so  many  of  the  popular  leaders  of  the  present 
day.  Una  is  then  delivered  from  Sans  Loy  by  the  satyrs,  to 
show  that  Nature,  in  the  end,  must  work  out  the  deliverance 
of  the  truth,  although,  where  it  has  been  captive  to  Lawless- 
ness, that  deliverance  can  only  be  obtained  through  Savage- 
ness, and  a return  to  barbarism.  Una  is  then  taken  from  among 
the  satyrs  by  Satyrane,  the  son  of  a satyr  and  a “ lady  myld, 
fair  Thy  amis,”  (typifying  the  early  steps  of  renewed  civiliza- 
tion, and  its  rough  and  hardy  character  “nousled  up  in  life 
and  manners  wilde,”)  who,  meeting  again  with  Sans  Loy,  en- 
ters instantly  into  rough  and  prolonged  combat  with  him  : 
showing  how  the  early  organization  of  a hardy  nation  must 
be  wrought  out  through  much  discouragement  from  Lawless- 
ness. This  contest  the  poet  leaving  for  the  time  undecided, 
returns  to  trace  the  adventures  of  the  Kedcrosse  Knight,  or 
Godly  Fear,  who,  having  vanquished  Infidelity,  presently  is 
led  by  Falsehood  to  the  house  of  Pride  : thus  showing  how 
religion,  separated  from  truth,  is  first  tempted  by  doubts  of 
God,  and  then  by  the  pride  of  life.  The  description  of  this 
house  of  Pride  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  and  noble  pieces 
in  the  poem  ; and  here  we  begin  to  get  at  the  proposed 
system  of  Virtues  and  Vices.  For  Pride,  as  queen,  has  six 
other  vices  yoked  in  her  chariot  ; namely,  first,  Idleness,  then 
Gluttony,  Lust,  Avarice,  Envy,  and  Anger,  all  driven  on  by 
“ Satlian,  with  a smarting  whip  in  hand.”  From  these  lower 
vices  and  their  company,  Godly  Fear,  though  lodging  in  the 


20S 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


house  of  Pride,  holds  aloof ; but  he  is  challenged,  and  has  a 
hard  battle  to  fight  with  Sans  Joy,  the  brother  of  Sans  Foy  : 
showing,  that  though  he  has  conquered  Infidelity,  and  does 
not  give  himself  up  to  the  allurements  of  Pride,  he  is  yet  ex- 
posed, so  long  as  he  dwells  in  her  house,  to  distress  of  mind 
and  loss  of  his  accustomed  rejoicing  before  God.  He,  how- 
ever, having  partly  conquered  Despondency,  or  Sans  Joy, 
Falsehood  goes  down  to  Hades  in  order  to  obtain  drugs  to 
maintain  the  power  or  life  of  Despondency ; but,  meantime, 
the  Knight  leaves  the  house  of  Pride  : Falsehood  pursues  and 
overtakes  him,  and  finds  him  by  a fountain  side,  of  which  the 
waters  are 

“ Dull  and  slow, 

And  all  that  dpi  like  thereof  do  faint  and  feeble  grow.” 

Of  which  the  meaning  is,  that  Godly  Fear,  after  passing 
through  the  house  of  Pride,  is  exposed  to  drowsiness  and 
feebleness  of  watch  ; as,  after  Peter’s  boast,  came  Peter  s 
sleeping,  from  weakness  of  the  flesh,  and  then,  last  of  all, 
Peter’s  fall.  And  so  it  follows  : for  the  Redcrosse  Knight, 
being  overcome  with  faintness  by  drinking  of  the  fountain,  is 
thereupon  attacked  by  the  giant  Orgoglio,  overcome  and 
thrown  by  him  into  a dungeon.  This  Orgoglio  is  Orgueil,  or 
Carnal  Pride  ; not  the  pride  of  life,  spiritual  and  subtle,  but 
the  common  and  vulgar  pride  in  the  power  of  this  world  ; 
and  his  throwing  the  Redcrosse  Knight  into  a dungeon,  is  a 
type  of  the  captivity  of  true  religion  under  the  temporal 
power  of  corrupt  churches,  more  especially  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  ; and  of  its  gradually  wasting  away  in  unknown  places, 
while  carnal  pride  has  the  preeminence  over  all  things.  That 
Spenser  means,  especially,  the  pride  of  the  Papacy,  is  shown 
by  the  16th  stanza  of  the  book  ; for  there  the  giant  Orgoglio 
is  said  to  have  taken  Duessa,  or  Falsehood,  for  his  “ deare,”  and 
to  have  set  upon  her  head  a triple  crown,  and  endowed  her  with 
royal  majesty,  and  made  her  to  ride  upon  a seven-headed  beast. 
In  the  meantime,  the  dwarf,  the  attendant  of  the  Redcrosse 
Knight,  takes  his  arms,  and  finding  TJna  tells  her  of  the  cap- 
tivity of  her  lord.  Una,  in  the  midst  of  her  mourning,  meets 
Prince  Arthur,  in  whom,  as  Spenser  himself  tells  us,  is  set 


APPENDIX. 


209 


forth  generally  Magnificence ; but  who,  as  is  shown  by  the 
choice  of  the  hero’s  name,  is  more  especially  the  magnificence, 
oi  literally,  “ great  doing  ” of  the  kingdom  of  England.  This 
pcwer  of  England,  going  forth  with  Truth,  attacks  Orgoglio, 
or  the  Pride  of  Papacy,  slays  him  ; strips  Duessa,  or  Falsehood, 
naked  ; and  liberates  the  Redcrosse  Knight.  The  magnificent 
and  well-known  description  of  Despair  follows,  by  whom  the 
Redcrosse  Knight  is  hard  bested,  on  account  of  his  past  er- 
rors and  captivity,  and  is  only  saved  by  Truth,  who,  perceiv- 
ing him  to  be  still  feeble,  brings  him  to  the  house  of  Coelia, 
called,  in  the  argument  of  the  canto,  Holiness,  but  properly, 
Heavenly  Grace,  the  mother  of  the  Virtues.  Her  “ three 
daughters,  well  upbrought,”  are  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity. 
Her  porter  is  Humility  ; because  Humility  opens  the  door  of 
Heavenly  Grace.  Zeal  and  Reverence  are  her  chamberlains, 
introducing  the  new  comers  to  her  presence  ; her  groom,  or 
servant,  is  Obedience  ; and  her  physician,  Patience.  Under 
the  commands  of  Charity,  the  matron  Mercy  rules  over  her 
hospital,  under  whose  care  the  Knight  is  healed  of  his  sick- 
ness ; and  it  is  to  be  especially  noticed  how  much  importance 
Spenser,  though  never  ceasing  to  chastise  all  hypocrisies  and 
mere  observances  of  form,  attaches  to  true  and  faithful  penance 
in  effecting  this  cure.  Having  his  strength  restored  to  him, 
the  Knight  is  trusted  to  the  guidance  of  Mercy,  who,  leading 
him  forth  by  a narrow  and  thorny  way,  first  instructs  him  in 
the  seven  works  of  Mercy,  and  then  leads  him  to  the  hill  of 
Heavenly  Contemplation  ; whence,  having  a sight  of  the  New 
Jerusalem,  as  Christian  of  the  Delectable  Mountains,  he  goes 
forth  to  the  final  victory  over  Satan,  the  old  serpent,  with 
which  the  book  closes. 

3.  AUSTRIAN  GOVERNMENT  IN  ITALY. 

I cannot  close  these  volumes  without  expressing  my  aston- 
ishment and  regret  at  the  facility  with  which  the  English 
allow  themselves  to  be  misled  by  any  representations,  how^- 
ever  openly  groundless  or  ridiculous,  proceeding  from  the 
Italian  Liberal  party,  respecting  the  present  administration  of 
the  Austrian  Government.  I do  not  choose  here  to  enter  into 
Von.  III.— 14 


210 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


any  political  discussion,  or  express  any  political  opinion  ; but 
it  is  due  to  justice  to  state  the  simple  facts  which  came  under 
my  notice  during  my  residence  in  Italy.  I was  living  at  Yen- 
ice  through  two  entire  winters,  and  in  the  habit  of  familiar 
association  both  with  Italians  and  Austrians,  my  own  antiquar- 
ian vocations  rendering  such  association  possible  without  ex- 
citing the  distrust  of  either  party.  During  this  whole  period, 
I never  once  was  able  to  ascertain,  from  any  liberal  Italian, 
that  he  had  a single  definite  ground  of  complaint  against  the 
Government.  There  was  much  general  grumbling  and  vague 
discontent  ; but  I never  was  able  to  bring  one  of  them  to  the 
point,  or  to  discover  what  it  was  that  they  wanted,  or  in  what 
way  they  felt  themselves  injured  ; nor  did  I ever  myself  wit- 
ness an  instance  of  oppression  on  the  part  of  the  Government, 
though  several  of  much  kindness  and  consideration.  The 
indignation  of  those  of  my  own  countrymen  and  country- 
women whom  I happened  to  see  during  their  sojourn  in  Yen- 
ice  wTas  always  vivid,  but  by  no  means  large  in  its  grounds. 
English  ladies  on  their  first  arrival  invariably  began  the  con- 
versation with  the  same  remark  : “ What  a dreadful  thing  it 
was  to  be  ground  under  the  iron  heel  of  despotism  ! ” Upon 
closer  inquiries  it  always  appeared  that  being  “ ground  under 
the  heel  of  despotism  ” was  a poetical  expression  for  being 
asked  for  one’s  passport  at  San  Juliano,  and  required  to  fetch 
it  from  San  Lorenzo,  full  a mile  and  a quarter  distant.  In 
like  manner,  travellers,  after  two  or  three  days’  residence  in 
the  city,  used  to  return  with  pitiful  lamentations  over  “ the 
misery  of  the  Italian  people.”  Upon  inquiring  what  instances 
they  had  met  with  of  this  misery,  it  invariably  turned  out  that 
their  gondoliers,  after  being  paid  three  times  their  proper 
fare,  had  asked  for  something  to  drink,  and  had  attributed 
the  fact  of  their  being  thirsty  to  the  Austrian  Government. 
The  misery  of  the  Italians  consists  in  having  three  festa  days 
a week,  and  doing  in  their  days  of  exertion  about  one  fourth 
as  much  work  as  an  English  laborer. 

There  is,  indeed,  much  true  distress  occasioned  by  the  meas- 
ures which  the  Government  is  sometimes  compelled  to  take  in 
order  to  repress  sedition  ; but  the  blame  of  this  lies  with 


APPENDIX . 


211 


those  whose  occupation  is  the  excitement  of  sedition.  So 
also  there  is  much  grievous  harm  done  to  works  of  art  by  the 
occupation  of  the  country  by  so  large  an  army  ; but  for  the 
mode  in  which  that  army  is  quartered,  the  Italian  municipal- 
ities are  answerable,  not  the  Austrians.  Whenever  I was 
shocked  by  finding,  as  above-mentioned  at  Milan,  a cloister, 
or  a palace,  occupied  by  soldiery,  I always  discovered,  on  in- 
vestigation, that  the  place  had  been  given  by  the  municipal- 
ity ; and  that,  beyond  requiring  that  lodging  for  a certain 
number  of  men  should  be  found  in  such  and  such  a quarter 
of  the  town,  the  Austrians  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
This  does  not,  however,  make  the  mischief  less : and  it  is 
strange,  if  we  think  of  it,  to  see  Italy,  with  all  her  precious 
works  of  art,  made  a continual  battle-field  ; as  if  no  other 
place  for  settling  their  disputes  could  be  found  by  the  Euro- 
pean powers,  than  where  every  random  shot  may  destroy 
what  a king’s  ransom  cannot  restore.*  It  is  exactly  as  if  the 
tumults  in  Paris  could  be  settled  no  otherwise  than  by  fight- 
ing them  out  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Louvre. 

4.  DATE  OF  THE  PALACES  OF  THE  BYZANTINE  RENAISSANCE. 

In  the  sixth  article  of  the  Appendix  to  the  first  volume,  the 
question  of  the  date  of  the  Casa  Dario  and  Casa  Trevisan  was 
deferred  until  I could  obtain  from  my  friend  Mr.  Itawdon 
Brown,  to  whom  the  former  palace  once  belonged,  some  more 
distinct  data  respecting  this  subject  than  I possessed  myself. 

Speaking  first  of  the  Casa  Dario,  he  says  : 4 ‘Fontana  dates 
it  from  about  the  year  1450,  and  considers  it  the  earliest  speci- 
men of  the  architecture  founded  by  Pietro  Lombardo,  and  fol- 
lowed by  his  sons,  Tullio  and  Antonio.  In  a Sanuto  autograph 
miscellany,  purchased  by  me  long  ago,  and  which  I gave  to  St. 
Mark’s  Library,  are  two  letters  from  Giovanni  Dario,  dated 

* In  the  bombardment  of  Venice  in  1848,  hardly  a single  palace  es- 
caped without  three  or  four  balls  through  its  roof : three  came  into  the 
Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  tearing  their  way  through  the  pictures  of  Tintoret, 
of  which  the  ragged  fragments  were  still  hanging  from  the  ceiling  in 
1851 ; and  the  shells  had  reached  to  within  a hundred  yards  of  St 
Mark's  Church  itself,  at  the  time  of  the  capitulation. 


212 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


10th  and  11th  July,  1485,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Adrianople  ; 
where  the  Turkish  camp  found  itself,  and  Bajazet  II.  received 
presents  from  the  Soldan  of  Egypt,  from  the  Schah  of  the 
Indies  (query  Grand  Mogul),  and  from  the  King  of  Hungary  : 
of  these  matters,  Dario’s  letters  give  many  curious  details. 
Then,  in  the  printed  Malipiero  Annals,  page  136  (which  err,  I 
think,  by  a year),  the  Secretary  Dario’s  negotiations  at  the 
Porte  are  alluded  to  ; and  in  date  of  1484  he  is  stated  to  have 
returned  to  Venice,  having  quarrelled  with  the  Venetian  bailiff 
at  Constantinople  : the  annalist  adds,  that  ‘ Giovanni  Dario 
was  a native  of  Candia,  and  that  the  Bepublic  was  so  well  sat- 
isfied with  him  for  having  concluded  peace  with  Bajazet,  that 
he  received,  as  a gift  from  his  country,  an  estate  at  Noventa, 
in  the  Paduan  territory,  worth  1500  ducats,  and  600  ducats  in 
cash  for  the  dower  of  one  of  his  daughters.’  These  largesses 
probably  enabled  him  to  build  his  house  about  the  year  1486, 
and  are  doubtless  hinted  at  in  the  inscription,  which  I restored 
a.d.  1837  ; it  had  no  date,  and  ran  thus,  urbis  . genio  . joannes  . 
darivs.  In  the  Venetian  history  of  Paolo  Morosini,  page  594, 
it  is  also  mentioned,  that  Giovanni  Dario,  was,  moreover,  the 
Secretary  who  concluded  the  peace  between  Mahomet,  the 
conqueror  of  Constantinople,  and  Venice,  a.d.  1478  ; but,  un- 
less he  build  his  house  by  proxy,  that  date  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it ; and  in  my  mind,  the  fact  of  the  present,  and  the  in- 
scription, warrant  one’s  dating  it  1486,  and  not  1450. 

“ The  Trevisan-Cappello  House,  in  Canonica,  was  once  the 
property  (a.d.  1578)  of  a Venetian  dame,  fond  of  cray-fish,  ac- 
cording to  a letter  of  hers  in  the  archives,  -whereby  she  thanks 
one  of  her  lovers  for  some  which  he  had  sent  her  from  Treviso 
to  Florence,  of  which  she  ^vas  then  Grand  Duchess.  Her  name 
has  perhaps  found  its  ^way  into  the  English  annuals.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  Bianca  Cappello  ? She  bought  that  house  of  the 
Trevisana  family,  by  whom  Selva  (in  Cicognara)  and  Fontana 
(following  Selva)  say  it  was  ordered  of  the  Lombardi,  at  the 
commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century  : but  the  inscription 
on  its  fa9ade,  thus, 

SOLI  II  ||  HONOR.  ET 

DEO  II  'I  GLORIA 


APPENDIX. 


218 


reminding  one  both  of  the  Dario  House,  and  of  the  words  non 
nobis  domine  inscribed  on  the  fa$ade  of  the  Loredano  Yen- 
dram  in  Palace  at  S.  Marcuola  (now  the  property  of  the  Duchess 
of  Berri),  of  which  Selva  found  proof  in  the  Vendramin  Archives 
that  it  was  commenced  by  Sante  Lombardo,  a.d.  1481,  is  in 
favor  of  its  being  classed  among  the  works  of  the  fifteenth 
century.” 

5.  RENAISSANCE  SIDE  OF  DUCAL  PALACE. 

In  passing  along  the  Bio  del  Palazzo  the  traveller  ought 
especially  to  observe  the  base  of  the  Benaissance  building, 
formed  by  alternately  depressed  and  raised  pyramids,  the  de- 
pressed portions  being  casts  of  the  projecting  ones,  which  are 
truncated  on  the  summits.  The  work  cannot  be  called  rusti- 
cation, for  it  is  cut  as  sharply  and  delicately  as  a piece  of 
ivory,  but  it  thoroughly  answers  the  end  which  rustication 
proposes,  and  misses  : it  gives  the  base  of  the  building  a look 
of  crystalline  hardness,  actually  resembling,  and  that  very 
closely,  the  appearance  presented  by  the  fracture  of  a piece  of 
cap  quartz  ; while  yet  the  light  and  shade  of  its  alternate  re- 
cesses and  projections  are  so  varied  as  to  produce  the  utmost 
possible  degree  of  delight  to  the  eye,  attainable  by  a geomet- 
rical pattern  so  simple.  Yet,  with  all  this  high  merit,  it  is  not 
a base  which  could  be  brought  into  general  use.  Its  brilliancy 
and  piquancy  are  here  set  off  with  exquisite  skill  by  its  oppo- 
sition to  mouldings,  in  the  upper  part  of  the  building,  of  an 
almost  effeminate  delicacy,  and  its  complexity  is  rendered 
delightful  by  its  contrast  with  the  ruder  bases  of  the  other 
buildings  of  the  city  ; but  it  would  look  meagre  if  it  were  em- 
ployed to  sustain  bolder  masses  above,  and  would  become 
wearisome  if  the  eye  were  once  thoroughly  familiarized  with 
it  by  repetition. 

6.  CHARACTER  OF  THE  DOGE  MICHELE  MOROSINI. 

The  following  extracts  from  the  letter  of  Count  Charles 
Morosini,  above  mentioned,  appear  to  set  the  question  at  rest. 

“It  is  our  unhappy  destiny  that,  during  the  glory  of  the 
Venetian  republic,  no  one  took  the  care  to  leave  us  a faithful 
and  conscientious  history  : but  I hardly  know  whether  this 


214 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


misfortune  should  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  the  historians  them, 
selves,  or  of  those  commentators  who  have  destroyed  their 
trustworthiness  by  new  accounts  of  things,  invented  by  them- 
selves. As  for  the  poor  Morosini,  we  may  perhaps  save  his 
honor  by  assembling  a conclave  of  our  historians,  in  order  to 
receive  their  united  sentence  ; for,  in  this  case,  he  would  have 
the  absolute  majority  on  his  side,  nearly  all  the  authors  bear- 
ing testimony  to  his  love  for  his  country  and  to  the  magna- 
nimity of  his  heart.  I must  tell  you  that  the  hiscory  of  Daru 
is  not  looked  upon  with  esteem  by  well-informed  men  ; and 
it  is  said  that  he  seems  to  have  no  other  object  in  view  than 
to  obscure  the  glory  of  all  actions.  I know  not  on  what  au- 
thority the  English  writer  depends  ; but  he  has,  perhaps, 
merely  copied  the  statement  of  Daru I have  con- 

sulted an  ancient  and  authentic  MS.  belonging  to  the  Venieri 
family,  a MS.  well  known,  and  certainly  better  worthy  of  con- 
fidence than  Daru’s  history,  and  it  says  nothing  of  M.  Morosini 
but  that  he  was  elected  Doge  to  the  delight  and  joy  of  all 
men.  Neither  do  the  Savina  or  Dolfin  Chronicles  say  a word 
of  the  shameful  speculation  ; and  our  best  informed  men  say 
that  the  reproach  cast  by  some  historians  against  the  Doge 
perhaps  arose  from  a mistaken  interpretation  of  the  words 
pronounced  by  him,  and  reported  by  Marin  Sanuto,  that  ‘ the 
speculation  would  sooner  or  later  have  been  advantageous  to 
the  country.’  But  this  single  consideration  is  enough  to  in- 
duce us  to  form  a favorable  conclusion  respecting  the  honor 
of  this  man,  namely,  that  he  was  not  elected  Doge  until  after 
he  had  been  entrusted  with  many  honorable  embassies  to  the 
Genoese  and  Carrarese,  as  well  as  to  the  King  of  Hungary  and 
Amadeus  of  Savoy  ; and  if  in  these  embassies  he  had  not 
shown  himself  a true  lover  of  his  country,  the  republic  not 
only  would  not  again  have  entrusted  him  with  offices  so  hon- 
orable, but  would  never  have  rewarded  him  Avith  the  dignity 
of  Doge,  therein  to  succeed  such  a man  as  Andrea  Contarini ; 
and  the  war  of  Chioggia,  during  which  it  is  said  that  he  tripled 
his  fortune  by  speculations,  took  place  during  the  reign  of 
Contarini,  1379,  1380,  while  Morosini  was  absent  on  foreign 
embassies.” 


APPENDIX. 


215 


7.  MODERN  EDUCATION. 

The  following  fragmentary  notes  on  this  subject  have  been 
set  down  at  different  times.  I have  been  accidentally  pre- 
vented from  arranging  them  properly  for  publication,  but 
there  are  one  or  two  truths  in  them  which  it  is  better  to  ex- 
press insufficiently  than  not  at  all. 

By  a large  body  of  the  people  of  England  and  of  Europe  a 
man  is  called  educated  if  he  can  write  Latin  verses  and  con- 
strue a Greek  chorus.  By  some  few  more  enlightened  per- 
sons it  is  confessed  that  the  construction  of  hexameters  is  not 
in  itself  an  important  end  of  human  existence  ; but  they  say, 
that  the  general  discipline  which  a course  of  classical  reading 
gives  to  the  intellectual  powers,  is  the  final  object  of  our  scho- 
lastical  institutions. 

But  it  seems  to  me,  there  is  no  small  error  even  in  this  last 
and  more  philosophical  theory.  I believe,  that  what  it  is 
most  honorable  to  know,  it  is  also  most  profitable  to  learn  ; 
and  that  the  science  which  it  is  the  highest  power  to  possess, 
it  is  also  the  best  exercise  to  acquire. 

And  if  this  be  so,  the  question  as  to  what  should  be  the 
material  of  education,  becomes  singularly  simplified.  It 
might  be  matter  of  dispute  what  processes  have  the  greatest 
effect  in  developing  the  intellect ; but  it  can  hardly  be  dis- 
puted what  facts  it  is  most  advisable  that  a man  entering  into 
life  should  accurately  know. 

I believe,  in  brief,  that  he  ought  to  know  three  things  : 

First.  Where  he  is. 

Secondly.  Where  he  is  going. 

Thirdly.  What  he  had  best  do,  under  those  circumstances. 

First.  Where  he  is.— That  is  to  say,  what  sort  of  a w^orld 
he  has  got  into  ; how  large  it  is  ; what  kind  of  creatures  live  in 
it,  and  how  ; what  it  is  made  of,  and  what  may  be  made  of  it. 

Secondly.  Where  he  is  going. — That  is  to  say,  what 
chances  or  reports  there  are  of  any  other  world  besides  this  ; 
what  seems  to  be  the  nature  of  that  other  world  ; and  whether, 
for  information  respecting  it,  he  had  better  consult  the  Bible, 
Koran,  or  Council  of  Trent. 


216 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


Thirdly.  What  he  had  best  do  under  those  circumstances* 

> — That  is  to  say,  what  kind  of  faculties  he  possesses  ; what 
are  the  present  state  and  wants  of  mankind  ; what  is  his  place 
in  society  ; and  what  are  the  readiest  means  in  his  power  ol 
attaining  happiness  and  diffusing  it.  The  man  who  knows 
these  things,  and  who  has  had  his  will  so  subdued  in  the 
learning  them,  that  he  is  ready  to  do  what  he  knows  he  ought, 
I should  call  educated  ; and  the  man  who  knows  them  not, — 
uneducated,  though  he  could  talk  all  the  tongues  of  Babel. 

Our  present  European  system  of  so-called  education  ignores, 
or  despises,  not  one,  nor  the  other,  but  all  the  three,  of  these 
great  branches  of  human  knowledge. 

First : It  despises  Natural  History.  — Until  within  the  last 
year  or  two,  the  instruction  in  the  physical  sciences  given  at 
Oxford  consisted  of  a course  of  twelve  or  fourteen  lectures  on 
the  Elements  of  Mechanics  or  Pneumatics,  and  permission  to 
ride  out  to  Shotover  with  the  Professor  of  Geology.  I do  not 
know  the  specialties  of  the  system  pursued  in  the  academies 
of  the  Continent ; but  their  practical  result  is,  that  unless  a 
man’s  natural  instincts  urge  him  to  the  pursuit  of  the  physical 
sciences  too  strongly  to  be  resisted,  he  enters  into  life  utterly 
ignorant  of  them.  I cannot,  within  my  present  limits,  even 
so  much  as  count  the  various  directions  in  which  this  igno- 
rance does  evil.  But  the  main  mischief  of  it  is,  that  it  leaves 
the  greater  number  of  men  without  the  natural  food  which 
God  intended  for  their  intellects.  For  one  man  who  is  fitted 
for  the  study  of  words,  fifty  are  fitted  for  the  study  of  things, 
and  were  intended  to  have  a perpetual,  simple,  and  religious 
delight  in  watching  the  processes,  or  admiring  the  creatures, 
of  the  natural  universe.  Deprived  of  this  source  of  pleasure, 
nothing  is  left  to  them  but  ambition  or  dissipation  ; and  the 
vices  of  the  upper  classes  of  Europe  are,  I believe,  chiefly  to 
te  attributed  to  this  single  cause. 

Secondly  : It  despises  Religion. — I do  not  say  it  despises 
“ Theology,”  that  is  to  say,  Talk  about  God.  But  it  despises 
“ Religion  ; ” that  is  to  say,  the  “ binding  ” or  training  to  God’s 
service.  There  is  much  talk  and  much  teaching  in  all  our 
academies,  of  which  the  effect  is  not  to  bind,  but  to  loosen,  the 


APPENDIX. 


217 


elements  of  religious  faith.  Of  the  ten  or  twelve  young  men 
who,  at  Oxford,  were  my  especial  friends,  who  sat  with  me 
under  the  same  lectures  on  Divinity,  or  were  punished  with 
me  for  missing  lecture  by  being  sent  to  evening  prayers,* 
four  are  now  zealous  Romanists, — a large  average  out  of 
twelve ; and  while  thus  our  own  universities  profess  to  teach 
Protestantism,  and  do  not,  the  universities  on  the  Continent 
profess  to  teach  Romanism,  and  do  not, — sending  forth  only 
rebels. and  infidels.  During  long  residence  on  the  Continent, 
I do  not  remember  meeting  with  above  two  or  three  young 
men,  who  either  believed  in  revelation,  or  had  the  grace  to 
hesitate  in  the  assertion  of  their  infidelity. 

Whence,  it  seems  to  me,  we  may  gather  one  of  two  things ; 
either  that  there  is  nothing  in  any  European  form  of  religion 
so  reasonable  or  ascertained,  as  that  it  can  be  taught  securely 
to  our  youth,  or  fastened  in  their  minds  by  any  rivets  of  proof 
which  they  shall  not  be  able  to  loosen  the  moment  they  begin 
to  think ; or  else,  that  no  means  are  taken  to  train  them  in 
such  demonstrable  creeds. 

It  seems  to  me  the  duty  of  a rational  nation  to  ascertain 
(and  to  be  at  some  pains  in  the  matter)  which  of  these  supposi- 
tions is  true  ; and,  if  indeed  no  proof  can  be  given  of  any  su- 
pernatural fact,  or  Divine  doctrine,  stronger  than  a youth  just 
out  of  his  teens  can  overthrow  in  the  first  stirrings  of  serious 
thought,  to  confess  this  boldly  ; to  get  rid  of  the  expense  of 
an  Establishment,  and  the  hypocrisy  of  a Liturgy  ; to  exhibit 
its  cathedrals  as  curious  memorials  of  a by-gone  superstition, 
and,  abandoning  all  thoughts  of  the  next  wTorld,  to  set  itself 
to  make  the  best  it  can  of  this. 

But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  there  does  exist  any  evidence  by 
which  the  probability  of  certain  religious  facts  may  be  shown, 
as  clearly,  even,  as  the  probabilities  of  things  not  absolutely 
ascertained  in  astronomical  or  geological  science,  let  this  evi- 
dence be  set  before  all  our  youth  so  distinctly,  and  the  facts 
for  which  it  appears  inculcated  upon  them  so  steadily,  that 
although  it  may  be  possible  for  the  evil  conduct  of  after  life  to 

* A Mohammedan  youth  is  punished,  I believe,  for  such  misdemean' 
ors,  by  being  kept  away  from  prayers. 


218 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


efface,  or  for  its  earnest  and  protracted  meditation  to  modify* 
the  impressions  of  early  years,  it  may  not  be  possible  for  our 
young  men,  the  instant  they  emerge  from  them  academies,  to 
scatter  themselves  like  a flock  of  wild  fowl  risen  out  of  a marsh, 
and  drift  away  on  every  irregular  wind  of  heresy  and  apostasy. 

Lastly : Our  system  of  European  education  despises  Politics. 
—That  is  to  say,  the  science  of  the  relations  and  duties  of  men 
to  each  other.  One  would  imagine,  indeed,  by  a glance  at  the 
state  of  the  world,  that  there  was  no  such  science.  And,  in- 
deed, it  is  one  still  in  its  infancy. 

It  implies,  in  its  full  sense,  the  knowledge  of  the  operations 
of  the  virtues  and  vices  of  men  upon  themselves  and  society  ; 
the  understanding  of  the  ranks  and  offices  of  their  intellectual 
and  bodily  powers  in  their  various  adaptations  to  art,  science, 
and  industry  ; the  understanding  of  the  proper  offices  of  art, 
science,  and  labor  themselves,  as  well  as  of  the  foundations  of 
jurisprudence,  and  broad  principles  of  commerce  ; all  this 
being  coupled  with  practical  knowledge  of  the  present  state 
and  wants  of  mankind. 

What,  it  will  be  said,  and  is  all  this  to  be  taught  to  school- 
boys ? No  ; but  the  first  elements  of  it,  all  that  -are  necessary 
to  be  known  by  an  individual  in  order  to  his  acting  wisely  in 
any  station  of  life,  might  be  taught,  not  only  to  every  school- 
boy, but  to  every  peasant.  The  impossibility  of  equality  among 
men  ; the  good  which  arises  from  their  inequality  ; the  com- 
pensating circumstances  in  different  states  and  fortunes  ; the 
honorableness  of  every  man  who  is  worthily  filling  his  appointed 
place  in  society,  however  humble  ; the  proper  relations  of  poor 
and  rich,  governor  and  governed  ; the  nature  of  wealth,  and 
mode  of  its  circulation  ; the  difference  between  productive  and 
unproductive  labor  ; the  relation  of  the  products  of  the  mind 
and  hand  ; the  true  value  of  works  of  the  higher  arts,  and  the 
possible  amount  of  their  production  ; the  meaning  of  “ Civili- 
zation,” its  advantages  and  dangers  ; the  meaning  of  the  term 
“ Refinement ; ” the  possibilities  of  possessing  refinement  in  a 
low  station,  and  of  losing  it  in  a high  one  ; and,  above  all,  the 
significance  of  almost  every  act  of  a man’s  daily  life,  in  its  ulti- 
mate operation  upon  himself  and  others  ; — all  this  might  be. 


APPENDIX ; 


213 


and  ought  to  be,  taught  to  every  boy  in  the  kingdom,  so  com- 
pletely, that  it  should  be  just  as  impossible  to  introduce  an 
absurd  or  licentious  doctrine  among  our  adult  population,  as  a 
new  version  of  the  multiplication  table.  Nor  am  I altogether 
without  hope  that  some  day  it  may  enter  into  the  heads  of  the 
tutors  of  our  schools  to  try  whether  it  is  not  as  easy  to  make 
an  Eton  boy’s  mind  as  sensitive  to  falseness  in  policy,  as  his 
ear  is  at  present  to  falseness  in  prosody. 

I know  that  this  is  much  to  hope.  That  English  ministers 
of  religion  should  ever  come  to  desire  rather  to  make  a youth 
acquainted  with  the  powers  of  nature  and  of  God,  than  with 
the  powers  of  Greek  particles  ; that  they  should  ever  think  it 
more  useful  to  show  him  how  the  great  universe  rolls  upon  its 
course  in  heaven,  than  how  the  syllables  are  fitted  in  a tragic 
metre  ; that  they  should  hold  it  more  advisable  for  him  to  be 
fixed  in  the  principles  of  religion  than  in  those  of  syntax ; or, 
finally,  that  they  should  ever  come  to  apprehend  that  a youth 
likely  to  go  straight  out  of  college  into  parliament,  might  not 
unadvisably  know  as  much  of  the  Peninsular  as  of  the  Pelopon- 
nesian War,  and  be  as  well  acquainted  with  the  state  of  Mod- 
ern Italy  as  of  old  Etruria ; — all  this  however  unreasonably,  I do 
hope,  and  mean  to  work  for.  For  though  I have  not  yet  aban- 
doned all  expectation  of  a better  world  than  this,  I believe  this  in 
which  we  live  is  not  so  good  as  it  might  be.  I know  there  are 
many  people  who  suppose  French  revolutions,  Italian  insur- 
rections, Caffre  wars,  and  such  other  scenic  effects  of  modern 
policy,  to  be  among  the  normal  conditions  of  humanit}^  I 
know  there  are  many  who  think  the  atmosphere  of  rapine,  re- 
bellion, and  misery  which  wraps  the  lower  orders  of  Europe 
more  closely  every  day,  is  as  natural  a phenomenon  as  a hot 
summer.  But  God  forbid  ! There  are  ills  which  flesh  is  heir 
to,  and  troubles  to  which  man  is  born  ; but  the  troubles  which 
he  is  born  to  are  as  sparks  which  fly  upward , not  as  flames 
burning  to  the  nethermost  Hell.  The  Poor  wre  must  have 
with  us  always,  and  sorrow  is  inseparable  from  any  hour  of 
life  ; but  we  may  make  their  poverty  such  as  shall  inherit  the 
earth,  and  the  sorrow,  such  as  shall  be  hallowed  by  the  hand 
of  the  Comforter,  with  everlasting  comfort.  We  can,  if  we 


220 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


will  but  shake  off  this  lethargy  and  dreaming  that  is  upon 
us,  and  take  the  pains  to  think  and  act  like  men,  we  can,  I 
say,  make  kingdoms  to  be  like  well-governed  households,  in 
which,  indeed,  while  no  care  or  kindness  can  prevent  occa- 
sional heart-burnings,  nor  any  foresight  or  piety  anticipate  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  or  avert  every  stroke  of  calamity, 
yet  the  unity  of  their  affection  and  fellowship  remains  un- 
broken, and  their  distress  is  neither  embittered  by  division, 
prolonged  by  imprudence,  nor  darkened  by  dishonor. 

* % * * * * % 

The  great  leading  error  of  modern  times  is  the  mistaking 
erudition  for  education.  I call  it  the  leading  error,  for  I believe 
that,  with  little  difficulty,  nearly  every  other  might  be  shown  to 
have  root  in  it ; and,  most  assuredly,  the  worst  that  are  fallen 
into  on  the  subject  of  art. 

Education  then,  briefly,  is  the  leading  human  souls  to  what 
is  best,  and  making  what  is  best  out  of -them  ; and  these  two 
objects  are  always  attainable  together,  and  by  the  same  means  ; 
the  training  which  makes  men  happiest  in  themselves,  also 
makes  them  most  serviceable  to  others.  True  education,  then, 
has  respect,  first  to  the  ends  which  are  proposable  to  the  man, 
or  attainable  by  him  ; and,  secondly,  to  the  material  of  which 
the  man  is  made.  So  far  as  it  is  able,  it  chooses  the  end  ac- 
cording to  the  material  : but  it  cannot  always  choose  the  end, 
for  the  position  of  many  persons  in  life  is  fixed  by  necessity  ; 
still  less  can  it  choose  the  material ; and,  therefore,  all  it  can 
do,  is  to  fit  the  one  to  the  other  as  wisely  as  may  be. 

But  the  first  point  to  be  understood,  is  that  the  material  is 
as  various  as  the  ends  ; that  not  only  one  man  is  unlike  another, 
but  every  man  is  essentially  different  from  every  other,  so  that 
no  training,  no  forming,  nor  informing,  will  ever  make  two 
persons  alike  in  thought  or  in  power.  Among  all  men,  whether 
of  the  upper  or  lower  orders,  the  differences  are  eternal  and  ir- 
reconcilable, between  one  individual  and  another,  born  under 
absolutely  the  same  circumstances.  One  man  is  made  of  agate, 
another  of  oak  ; one  of  slate,  another  of  clay.  The  education 
of  the  first  is  polishing  ; of  the  second,  seasoning ; of  the  third, 
rending  ; of  the  fourth,  moulding.  It  is  of  no  use  to  season 


APPENDIX. 


221 


the  agate  ; it  is  vain  to  try  to  polish  the  slate  ; but  both  are 
fitted,  by  the  qualities  they  possess,  for  services  in  which  they 
may  be  honored. 

Now  the  cry  for  the  education  of  the  lower  classes,  which  is 
heard  every  day  more  widely  and  loudly,  is  a wise  and  a sacred 
cry,  provided  it  be  extended  into  one  for  the  education  of  all 
classes,  with  definite  respect  to  the  wrork  each  man  has  to  do, 
and  the  substance  of  which  he  is  made.  But  it  is  a foolish  and 
vain  cry,  if  it  be  understood,  as  in  the  plurality  of  cases  it  is 
meant  to  be,  for  the  expression  of  mere  craving  after  knowl- 
edge, irrespective  of  the  simple  purposes  of  the  life  that  now 
is,  and  blessings  of  that  which  is  to  come. 

One  great  fallacy  into  which  men  are  apt  to  fall  when  they 
are  reasoning  on  this  subject  is : that  light,  as  such,  is  always 
good  ; and  darkness,  as  such,  always  evil.  Far  from  it.  Light 
untempered  would  be  annihilation.  It  is  good  to  them  that  sit 
in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow  of  death  ; but,  to  those  that  faint 
in  the  wilderness,  so  also  is  the  shadow  of  the  great  rock  in  a 
weary  land.  If  the  sunshine  is  good,  so  also  the  cloud  of  the 
latter  rain.  Light  is  only  beautiful,  only  available  for  life, 
when  it  is  tempered  with  shadow  ; pure  light  is  fearful,  and  un- 
endurable by  humanity.  And  it  is  not  less  ridiculous  to  say 
that  the  light,  as  such,  is  good  in  itself,  than  to  say  that  the 
darkness  is  good  in  itself.  Both  are  rendered  safe,  healthy, 
and  useful  by  the  other  ; the  night  by  the  day,  the  day  by 
the  night ; and  we  could  just  as  easily  live  without  the  dawn 
as  without  the  sunset,  so  long  as  we  are  human.  Of  the  celes- 
tial city  we  are  told  that  there  shall  be  “no  night  there,” and 
then  we  shall  know  even  as  also  we  are  known  : but  the  night 
and  the  mystery  have  both  their  service  here  ; and.  our  business 
is  not  to  strive  to  turn  the  night  into  day,  but  to  be  sure  that, 
we  are  as  they  that  watch  for  the  morning. 

Therefore,  in  the  education  either  of  lower  or  upper  classes, 
it  matters  not  the  least  how  much  or  how  little  they  know, 
provided  they  know  just  what  will  fit  them  to  do  their  work, 
and  to  be  happy  in  it.  What  the  sum  or  the  nature  of  their 
knowledge  ought  to  be  at  a given  time  or  in  a given  case,  is  a 
totally  different  question  : the  main  thing  to  be  understood  is, 


222 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


that  a man  is  not  educated,  in  any  sense  whatsoever,  because 
he  can  read  Latin,  or  write  English,  or  can  behave  well  in  a 
drawing-room ; but  that  he  is  only  educated  if  he  is  happy, 
busy,  beneficent,  and  effective  in  the  world ; that  millions  of 
peasants  are  therefore  at  this  moment  better  educated  than 
most  of  those  who  call  themselves  gentlemen  ; and  that  the 
means  taken  to  “ educate  ” the  lower  classes  in  any  other 
sense  may  very  often  be  productive  of  a precisely  opposite 
result. 

Observe:  I do  not  say,  nor  do  I believe,  that  the  lower 
classes  ought  not  to  be  better  educated,  in  millions  of  ways, 
than  they  are.  I believe  every  man  in  a Christian  kingdom 
ought  to  he  equally  well  educated.  But  I would  have  it  educa- 
tion to  purpose  ; stern,  practical,  irresistible,  in  moral  habits, 
in  bodily  strength  and  beauty,  in  all  faculties  of  mind  capable  of 
being  developed  under  the  circumstances  of  the  individual, 
and  especially  in  the  technical  knowledge  of  his  own  business  ; 
but  yet,  infinitely  various  in  its  effort,  directed  to  make  one 
youth  humble,  and  another  confident ; to  tranquillize  this 
mind,  to  put  some  spark  of  ambition  into  that ; now  to  urge, 
and  now  to  restrain  : and  in  the  doing  of  all  this,  consider- 
ing knowledge  as  one  only  out  of  myriads  of  means  in  its 
hands,  or  myriads  of  gifts  at  its  disposal ; and  giving  it  or 
withholding  it  as  a good  husbandman  waters  his  garden,  giv- 
ing the  full  shower  only  to  the  thirsty  plants,  and  at  times 
when  they  are  thirsty,  whereas  at  present  we  pour  it  upon  the 
heads  of  our  youth  as  the  snow  falls  on  the  Alps,  on  one  and 
another  alike,  till  they  can  bear  no  more,  and  then  take  honor 
to  ourselves  because  here  and  there  a river  descends  from  their 
crests  into  the  valleys,  not  observing  that  we  have  made  the 
loaded  hills  themselves  barren  for  ever. 

Finally : I hold  it  for  indisputable,  that  the  first  duty  of  a 
state  is  to  see  that  every  child  born  therein  shall  be  wefi 
housed,  clothed,  fed,  and  educated,  till  it  attain  years  of  dis- 
cretion. But  in  order  to  the  effecting  this,  the  government 
must  have  an  authority  over  the  people  of  which  we  now  do 
not  so  much  as  dream  ; and  I cannot  in  this  place  pursue  the 
subject  farther. 


APPENDIX. 


223 


8.  EARLY  VENETIAN  MARRIAGES. 

Galliciolli,  lib.  ii.  § 1757,  insinuates  a doubt  of  the  general 
custom,  saying  “ it  would  be  more  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
only  twelve  maidens  were  married  in  public  on  St.  Mark’s 
day;”  and  Sandi  also  speaks  of  twelve  only.  All  evidence, 
however,  is  clearly  in  favor  of  the  popular  tradition  ; the  most 
curious  fact  connected  with  the  subject  being  the  mention,  by 
Herodotus,  of  the  mode  of  marriage  practised  among  the 
Illyrian  “Veneti”of  his  time,  who  presented  their  maidens 
for  marriage  on  one  day  in  each  year ; and,  with  the  price 
paid  for  those  who  were  beautiful,  gave  dowries  to  those  who 
had  no  personal  attractions. 

It  is  very  curious  to  find  the  traces  of  this  custom  existing, 
though  in  a softened  form,  in  Christian  times.  Still,  I admit 
that  there  is  little  confidence  to  be  placed  in  the  mere  concur- 
rence of  the  Venetian  Chroniclers,  who,  for  the  most  part, 
copied  from  each  other : but  the  best  and  most  complete  ac- 
count I have  read,  is  that  quoted  by  Galliciolli  from  the 
“Matricolo  de’  Casseleri,”  written  in  1449  ; and,  in  that  ac- 
count, the  words  are  quite  unmistakable.  “ It  was  anciently 
the  custom  of  Venice,  that  all  the  brides  (novizze)  of  Venice, 
when  they  married,  should  be  married  by  the  bishop,  in  the 
Church  of  S.  Pietro  di  Castello,  on  St.  Mark’s  day,  which  is 
the  31st  of  January.  Eogers  quotes  Navagiero  to  the  same 
effect ; and  Sansovino  is  more  explicit  still.  “It  was  the  cus- 
tom to  contract  marriages  openly  ; and  when  the  delibera- 
tions were  completed,  the  damsels  assembled  themselves  in 
Si.  Pietro  di  Castello,  for  the  feast  of  St.  Mary,  in  February.’' 

9.  CHARACTER  OF  THE  VENETIAN  ARISTOCRACY. 

The  following  noble  answer  of  a Venetian  ambassador,  Gius- 
tiniani,  on  the  occasion  of  an  insult  offered  him  at  the  court  of 
Henry  the  Eighth,  is  as  illustrative  of  the  dignity  which  there 
yet  remained  in  the  character  and  thoughts  of  the  Venetian 
noble,  as  descriptive,  in  few  words,  of  the  early  faith  and  deeds 
of  his  nation.  He  writes  thus  to  the  Doge,  from  London,  on 
the  15th  of  April,  151G  : 


224 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 

“ B*y  my  last>  in  date  of  the  30th  ult,  I informed  you  that 
the  countenances  of  some  of  these  lords  evinced  neither  friend* 
ship  nor  goodwill,  and  that  much  language  had  been  used  to  me 
of  a nature  bordering  not  merely  on  arrogance,  but  even  on 
outrage ; and  not  having  specified  this  in  the  foregoing  letters 
I think  fit  now  to  mention  it  in  detail.  Finding  myself  at  the 
court,  and  talking  familiarly  about  other  matters,  two  lay  lords 
great  personages  in  this  kingdom,  inquired  of  me  ‘ whence  it 
came  that  your  Excellency  was  of  such  slippery  faith,  now  favor- 
ing one  party  and  then  the  other?’  Although  these  words 
ought  to  have  irritated  me,  I answered  them  with  all  discretion, 
‘ that  you  did  keeP>  and  ever  had  kept  your  faith  ; the  main- 
tenance of  which  has  placed  you  in  great  trouble,  and  subjected 
you  to  wars  .of  longer  duration  than  you  would  otherwise  have 
experienced  ; descending  to  particulars  in  justification  of  your 
Sublimity.’  Whereupon  one  of  them  replied,  ‘ Mi  Veneti  sunt 
piscatores.’ * Marvellous  was  the  command  I then  had  over 
myself  in  not  giving  vent  to  expressions  which  might  have 
proved  injurious  to  your  Signory ; and  with  extreme  moderation 
I rejoined,  * that  had  he  been  at  Venice,  and  seen  our  Senate, 
and  the  Venetian  nobility,  he  perhaps  would  not  speak  thus’; 
and  moreover,  were  he  well  read  in  our  history,  both  concern- 
ing the  origin  of  our  city  and  the  grandeur  of  your  Excellency’s 
feats,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  would  seem  to  him  those 
of  fishermen  ; yet,’  said  I,  ‘did  fishermen  found  the  Christian 
faith,  and  we  have  been  those  fishermen  who  defended  it 
against  the  forces  of  the  Infidel,  our  fishing-boats  being  gal- 
leys and  ships,  our  hooks  the  treasure  of  St.  Mark,  and  our 

bait  the  life-blood  of  our  citizens,  who  died  for  the  Christian 
faith/  ” 

I take  this  most  interesting  passage  from  a volume  of  de- 
spatches addressed  from  London  to  the  Signory  of  Venice,  by 
the  ambassador  Giustiniani,  during  the  years  1516-1519 ; de- 
spatches not  only  full  of  matters  of  historical  interest,  but  of 
the  most  delightful  every-day  description  of  all  that  went  on 
at  the  English  court.  They  were  translated  by  Mr.  Brown 
from  the  original  letters,  and  will,  I believe,  soon  be  published, 

* <{  Those  Venetians  are  fishermen.” 


APPENDIX. 


and  I hope  also,  read  and  enjoyed  : for  I cannot  close  these 
volumes  without  expressing  a conviction,  which  has  long  been 
forcing  itself  upon  my  mind,  that  restored  history  is  of  little 
more  value  than  restored  painting  or  architecture  ; that  the 
only  history  worth  reading  is  that  written  at  the  time  of  which 
it  treats,  the  history  of  what  was  done  and  seen,  heard  out  of 
the  mouths  of  the  men  who  did  and  saw.  One  fresh  draught 
of  such  history  is  worth  more  than  a thousand  volumes  of  ab- 
stracts, and  reasonings,  and  suppositions,  and  theories  ; and  I 
believe  that,  as  we  get  wiser,  we  shall  take  little  trouble  about 
the  history  of  nations  who  have  left  no  distinct  records  of  them- 
selves, but  spend  our  time  only  in  the  examination  of  the  faith- 
ful documents  which,  in  any  period  of  the  world,  have  been 
left,  either  in  the  form  of  art  or  literature,  portraying  the 
scenes,  or  recording  the  events,  which  in  those  days  were  act- 
ually passing  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

10.  FINAL  APPENDIX. 

The  statements  respecting  the  dates  of  Venetian  buildings 
made  throughout  the  preceding  pages,  are  founded,  as  above 
stated,  on  careful  and  personal  examination  of  all  the  mould- 
ings, or  other  features  available  as  evidence,  of  every  palace 
of  importance  in  the  city.  Three  parts,  at  least,  of  the  time 
occupied  in  the  completion  of  the  work  have  been  necessarily 
devoted  to  the  collection  of  these  evidences,  of  which  it  would 
be  quite  useless  to  lay  the  mass  before  the  reader  ; but  of 
which  the  leading  points  must  be  succinctly  stated,  in  order 
to  show  the  nature  of  my  authority  for  any  of  the  conclusions 
expressed  in  the  text. 

I have  therefore  collected  in  the  plates  which  illustrate  this 
article  of  the  Appendix,  for  the  examination  of  any  reader  who 
may  be  interested  by  them,  as  many  examples  of  the  evidence- 
bearing details  as  are  sufficient  for  the  proof  required,  espe- 
cially including  all  the  exceptional  forms  ; so  that  the  reader 
may  rest  assured  that  if  I had  been  able  to  lay  before  him  all 
the  evidence  in  my  possession,  it  would  have  been  still  more 
conclusive  than  the  portion  now  submitted  to  him. 

Vol.  III.— 15 


226 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


We  must  examine  in  succession  the  Bases,  Doorways  and 
Jambs,  Capitals,  Archivolts,  Cornices,  and  Tracery  Bars,  of 
Venetian  architecture. 

L Bases. 

The  principal  points  we  have  to  notice  are  the  similarity  and 
simplicity  of  the  Byzantine  bases  in  general,  and  the  distinc- 
tion between  those  of  Torcello  and  Murano,  and  of  St.  Mark’s, 
as  tending  to  prove  the  early  dates  attributed  in  the  text  to 
the  island  churches.  I have  sufficiently  illustrated  the  forms 
of  the  Gothic  bases  in  Plates  X.,  XI.,  and  XIIL  of  the  first 
volume,  so  that  I here  note  chiefly  the  Byzantine  or  Roman- 
esque ones,  adding  two  Gothic  forms  for  the  sake  of  compari- 
son. 

The  most  characteristic  examples,  then,  are  collected  in 
Plate  V.  opposite  ; namely  : 

1,  2,  3,  4.  In  the  upper  gallery  of  apse  of  Murano. 

5.  Lower  shafts  of  apse.  Murano. 

6.  Casa  Falier. 

7.  Small  shafts  of  panels.  Casa  Farsetti. 

8.  Great  shafts  and  plinth.  Casa  Farsetti. 

9.  Great  lower  shafts.  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

10.  Ducal  Palace,  upper  arcade. 

Plate  V.  11.  General  late  Gothic  form. 

Vol.  in.  12.  Tomb  of  Dogaressa  Vital  Michele,  in  St.  Mark’s 
atrium. 

13.  Upper  arcade  of  Madonnetta  House. 

14.  Rio-Foscari  House. 

15.  Upper  arcade.  Terraced  House. 

16.  17,  18.  Nave.  Torcello. 

19,  20.  Transepts.  St.  Mark’s. 

21.  Nave.  St.  Mark’s. 

22.  External  pillars  of  northern  portico.  St.  Mark’s. 

23.  24.  Clustered  pillars  of  northern  portico.  St. 

Mark’s. 

25,  26.  Clustered  pillars  of  southern  portico.  St 
Mark’s. 


Plate  V.— Byzantine  Bases. 


APPENDIX. 


227 


Now,  observe,  first,  the  enormous  difference  in  style  between 
the  bases  1 to  5,  and  the  rest  in  the  upper  row,  that  is  to  say, 
between  the  bases  of  Murano  and  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
century  bases  of  Venice  ; and,  secondly,  the  difference  between 
the  bases  16  to  20  and  the  rest  in  the  lower  row,  that  is  to  say, 
between  the  bases  of  Torcello  (with  those  of  St.  Mark’s  which 
belong  to  the  nave,  and  which  may  therefore  be  supposed  to  be 
part  of  the  earlier  church),  and  the  later  ones  of  the  St.  Mark’s 
Facade. 

Secondly  : Note  the  fellowship  between  5 and  6,  one  of  the 
evidences  of  the  early  date  of  the  Casa  Falier. 

Thirdly : Observe  the  slurring  of  the  upper  roll  into  the 
cavetto,  in  13,  14,  and  15,  and  the  consequent  relationship 
established  between  three  most  important  buildings,  the  Rio- 
Foscari  House,  Terraced  House,  and  Madonnetta  House. 

Fourthly  : Byzantine  bases,  if  they  have  an  incision  between 
the  upper  roll  and  cavetto,  are  very  apt  to  approach  the  form 
of  fig.  23,  in  which  the  upper  roll  is  cut  out  of  the  flat  block, 
and  the  ledge  beneath  it  is  sloping.  Compare  Nos.  7,  8,  9, 
21,  22,  23,  24,  25,  26.  On  the  other  hand,  the  later  Gothic 
base,  11,  has  always  its  upper  roll  well  developed,  and,  gen- 
erally, the  fillet  between  it  and  the  cavetto  vertical.  The  slop- 
ing fillet  is  indeed  found  down  to  late  periods  ; and  the  verti- 
cal fillet,  as  in  No.  12,  in  Byzantine  ones ; but  still,  when  a 
base  has  such  a sloping  fillet  and  peculiarly  graceful  sweeping 
cavetto,  as  those  of  No.  10,  looking  as  if  they  would  run  into 
one  line  with  each  other,  it  is  strong  presumptive  evidence  of 
its  belonging  to  an  early,  rather  than  a late  period. 

The  base  12  is  the  boldest  example  I could  find  of  the  ex- 
ceptional form  in  early  times ; but  observe,  in  this,  that  the 
upper  roll  is  larger  than  the  lower.  This  is  never  the  case  in 
late  Gothic,  where  the  proportion  is  always  as  in  fig.  11. 
Observe  that  in  Nos.  8 and  9 the  upper  rolls  are  at  least  as 
large  as  the  lower,  an  important  evidence  of  the  dates  of  the 
Casa  Farsetti  and  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

Lastly : Note  the  peculiarly  steep  profile  of  No.  22.  with 
reference  to  what  is  said  of  this  base  in  Vol.  H.  Appendix  9. 


228 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


II  Doorways  and  Jambs. 

The  entrances  to  St.  Mark's  consist,  as  above  mentioned,  of 
great  circular  or  ogee  porches ; underneath  which  the  real 
open  entrances,  in  which  the  valves  of  the  bronze  doors  play, 
are  square-headed. 

The  mouldings  of  the  jambs 
of  these  doors  are  highly  curi- 
ous, and  the  most  characteristic 
are  therefore  represented  in  one 
view.  The  outsides  of  the  jambs 
are  lowest. 

a . Northern  lateral  door. 

b.  First  northern  door  of  the 

fa9ade. 

c.  Second  door  of  the  fa9ade. 

d.  Fourth  door  of  the  fa9ade. 

e.  Central  door  of  the  fa9ade. 


Fig.  I, 


APPENDIX. 


229 


I wisli  the  reader  especially  to  note  the  arbitrary  character 
of  the  curves  and  incisions  ; all  evidently  being  drawn  by 
hand,  none  being  segments  of  circles,  none  like  another,  none 
influenced  by  any  visible  law.  I do  not  give  these  mouldings 
as  beautiful ; they  are,  for  the  most  part,  very  poor  in  effect, 
but  they  are  singularly  characteristic  of  the  free  work  of  the 
time. 

The  kind  of  door  to  which  these  mouldings  belong,  is  shown, 
with  the  other  groups  of  doors,  in  Plate  XIV.  Vol.  II.  fig.  6 a. 
Then  6 b,  6 c,  6 d represent  the  groups  of  doors  in  which  the 
Byzantine  influence  remained  energetic,  admitting  slowly  the 
forms  of  the  pointed  Gothic  ; 7 a , with  the  gable  above,  is  the 
intermediate  group  between  the  Byzantine  and  Gothic  schools  ; 
7 b,  7 c,  7 d,  7 e are  the  advance  guards  of  the  Gothic  and 
Lombardic  invasions,  representative  of  a large  number  of 
thirteenth  century  arcades  and  doors.  Observe  that  6 d is 
shown  to  be  of  a late  school  by  its  finial,  and  6 e of  the  latest 
school  by  its  finial,  complete  ogee  arch  (instead  of  round  or 
pointed),  and  abandonment  of  the  lintel. 

These  examples,  with  the  exception  of  6 a,  which  is  a gen- 
eral form,  are  all  actually  existing  doors  ; namely  : 

6 b.  In  the  Fondamenta  Venier,  near  St.  Maria  della  Salute. 

6 c.  In  the  Calle  delle  Botteri,  between  the  Rialto  and  San 
Cassan. 

6 d.  Main  door  of  San  Gregorio. 

6 e.  Door  of  a palace  in  Rio  San  Paternian. 

7 a.  Door  of  a small  courtyard  near  house  of  Marco  Polo. 

7 b.  Arcade  in  narrow  canal,  at  the  side  of  Casa  Barbaro. 

7 c.  At  the  turn  of  the  canal,  close  to  the  Ponte  dell’  An- 
gelo. 

7 d.  In  Rio  San  Paternian  (a  ruinous  house). 

7 e . At  the  turn  of  the  canal  on  which  the  Sotto  Portico 
della  Stua  opens,  near  San  Zaccaria. 

If  the  reader  will  take  a magnifying  glass  to  the  figure  6 d , 
he  will  see  that  its  square  ornaments,  of  which,  in  the  real 
door,  each  contains  a rose,  diminish  to  the  apex  of  the  arch ; 


230 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


a very  interesting*  and  characteristic  circumstance,  showing  the 
subtle  feeling  of  the  Gothic  builders.  They  must  needs  di- 
minish the  ornamentation,  in  order  to  sympathize  with  the 
delicacy  of  the  point  of  the  arch.  The  magnifying  glass  will 
also  show  the  Bondumieri  shield  in  No.  7 d,  and  the  Leze 
shield  in  No.  7 e,  both  introduced  on  the  keystones  in  the 
grand  early  manner.  The  mouldings  of  these  various  doors 
will  be  noticed  under  the  head  Archivolt. 

Now,  throughout  the  city  we  find  a number  of  doors  resem- 
bling the  square  doors  of  St.  Mark,  and  occurring  with  rare 
exceptions  either  in  buildings  of  the  Byzantine  period,  or  im- 
bedded in  restored  houses  ; never,  in  a single  instance,  form- 
ing a connected  portion  of  any  late  building  ; and  they  there- 
fore furnish  a most  important  piece  of  evidence,  wherever 
they  are  part  of  the  original  structure  of  a Gothic  building, 
that  such  building  is  one  of  the  advanced  guards  of  the  Gothic 
school,  and  belongs  to  its  earliest  period. 

On  Plate  VI.,  opposite,  are  assembled  all  the  important 
examples  I could  find  in  Venice  of  these  mouldings.  The 
reader  will  see  at  a glance  their  peculiar  character,  and  un- 
mistakable likeness  to  each  other.  The  following  are  the  ref- 
erences : 

1.  Door  in  Calle  Mocenigo. 

2.  Angle  of  tomb  of  Dogaressa  Vital  Michele. 

3.  Door  in  Sotto  Portico,  St.  Apollonia  (near  Ponte 

di  Canonica). 

4.  Door  in  Calle  della  Verona  (another  like  it  is 

close  by). 

5.  Angle  of  tomb  of  Doge  Marino  Morosini. 

6.  7.  Door  in  Calle  Mocenigo. 

8.  Door  in  Campo  S.  Margherita. 

Plate  VI.  9.  Door  at  Traghetto  San  Samuele,  on  south  side 
Vol.  III.  of  Grand  Canal. 

10.  Door  at  Ponte  St.  Toma. 

11.  Great  door  of  Church  of  Servi. 

12.  In  Calle  della  Chiesa,  Campo  San  Filippo  e 

Giacomo. 

13.  Door  of  house  in  Calle  di  Rimedio  (Vol.  II.). 


Plate  VI.— Byzantine  Jambs. 


APPENDIX. 


231 


14.  Door  in  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

15.  Door  in  Fondamenta  Malcanton,  near  Campo 

S.  Margherita. 

16.  Door  in  south  side  of  Canna  Reggio. 

17.  18.  Doors  in  Sotto  Portico  dei  Squellini. 

The  principal  points  to  be  noted  in  these  mouldings  are 
their  curious  differences  of  level,  as  marked  by  the  dotted 
lines,  more  especialty  in  14,  15,  16,  and  the  systematic  pro- 
jection of  the  outer  or  lower  mouldings  in  16,  17,  18.  Then, 
as  points  of  evidence,  observe  that  1 is  the  jamb  and  6 the 
archivolt  (7  the  angle  on  a larger  scale)  of  the  brick  door 
given  in  my  folio  work  from  Ramo  di  rimpetto  Mocenigo,  one 
of  the  evidences  of  the  early  date  of  that  door  ; 8 is  the  jamb 
of  the  door  in  Campo  Santa  Margherita  (also  given  in  my  folio 
work),  fixing  the  early  date  of  that  also  ; 10  is  from  a Gothic 
door  opening  off  the  Ponte  St.  Toma  ; and  11  is  also  from 
a Gothic  building.  All  the  rest  are  from  Byzantine  work, 
or  from  ruins.  The  angle  of  the  tomb  of  Marino  Morosini 
(5)  is  given  for  comparison  only. 

The  doors  with  the  mouldings  17,  18,  are  from  the  two 
ends  of  a small  dark  passage,  called  the  Sotto  Portico  dei 
Squellini,  opening  near  Ponte  Cappello,  on  the  Rio-Marin  : 14 
is  the  outside  one,  arranged  as  usual,  and  at  a , in  the  rough 
stone,  are  places  for  the  staples  of  the  door  valve  ; 15,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  passage,  opening  into  the  little  Corte  dei 
Squellini,  is  set  with  the  part  a outwards,  it  also  having  places 
for  hinges  ; but  it  is  curious  that  the  rich  moulding  should 
be  set  in  towards  the  dark  passage,  though  natural  that  the 
doors  should  both  open  one  way. 

The  next  Plate,  VII.,  will  show  the  principal  characters  of 
the  Gothic  jambs,  and  the  total  difference  between  them  and 
the  B}rzantines  ones.  Two  more  Byzantine  forms,  1 and  2,  are 
given  here  for  the  sake  of  comparison  ; then  3,  4,  and  5 are 
the  common  profiles  of  simple  jambs  of  doors  in  the  Gothic 
period  ; 6 is  one  of  the  jambs  of  the  Frari  windows,  continu- 
ous into  the  archivolt,  and  meeting  the  traceries,  where  the 
line  is  set  upon  it  at  the  extremity  of  its  main  slope  ; 7 and  8 


232 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


are  jambs  of  the  Ducal  Palace  windows,  in  which  the  great 
semicircle  is  the  half  shaft  which  sustains  the  traceries,  and 
the  rest  of  the  profile  is  continuous  in  the  archivolt ; 17,  18, 
and  19  are  the  principal  piers  of  the  Ducal  Palace  ; and  20, 
from  St.  Fermo  of  Verona,  is  put  with  them  in  order  to  show 
the  step  of  transition  from  the  Byzantine  form  2 to  the  Gothic 
chamfer,  which  is  hardly  represented  at  Venice.  The  other 
profiles  on  the  plate  are  all  late  Gothic,  given  to  show  the 
gradual  increase  of  complexity  without  any  gain  of  power. 
The  open  lines  in  12,  14,  16,  etc.,  are  the  parts  of  the  profile 
cut  into  flowers  or  cable  mouldings  ; and  so  much  incised  as 
to  show  the  constant  outline  of  the  cavetto  or  curve  beneath 
them.  The  following  are  the  references  : 

1.  Door  in  house  of  Marco  Polo. 

2.  Old  door  in  a restored  church  of  St.  Cassan. 

3.  4,  5.  Common  jambs  of  Gothic  doors. 

6.  Frari  windows. 

7,  8.  Ducal  Palace  windows. 

9.  Casa  Priuli,  great  entrance. 

10.  San  Stefano,  great  door. 

Plate  VII.  11.  San  Gregorio,  door  opening  to  the  water. 

Vol.  III.  12.  Lateral  door,  Frari. 

13.  Door  of  Campo  San  Zaccaria. 

14.  Madonna  dell’  Orto. 

15.  San  Gregorio,  door  in  the  fa9ade. 

16.  Great  lateral  door,  Frari. 

17.  Pilaster  at  Vine  angle,  Ducal  Palace. 

18.  Pier,  inner  cortile,  Ducal  Palace. 

19.  Pier,  under  the  medallion  of  Venice,  on  the 

Piazetta  fa§ade  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

III.  Capitals . 

I shall  here  notice  the  various  facts  I have  omitted  in  the 
text  of  the  work. 

First,  with  respect  to  the  Byzantine  Capitals  represented  in 
Plate  VII.  Vol.  II.,  I omitted  to  notice  that  figs.  6 and  7 repre- 
sent two  sides  of  the  same  capital  at  Murano  (though  one  is 


Plats  YIL —Gothic  Jambs. 


APPENDIX . 


233 


necessarily  drawn  on  a smaller  scale  than  the  other).  Fig.  7 
is  the  side  turned  to  the  light,  and  fig.  6 to  the  shade,  the 
inner  part,  which  is  quite  concealed,  not  being  touched  at  all. 

We  have  here  a conclusive  proof  that  these  capitals  were 
cut  for  their  place  in  the  apse  ; therefore  I have  always  con- 
sidered them  as  tests  of  Venetian  workmanship,  and,  on  the 
strength  of  that  proof,  have  occasionally  spoken  of  capitals  as 
of  true  Venetian  work,  which  M.  Lazari  supposes  to  be  of  the 
Lower  Empire.  No.  11,  from  St.  Mark’s,  was  not  above  no- 
ticed. The  way  in  which  the  cross  is  gradually  left  in  deeper 
relief  as  the  sides  slope  inwards  and  away  from  it,  is  highly 
picturesque  and  curious. 

No.  9 has  been  reduced  from  a larger  drawing,  and  some  of 
the  life  and  character  of  the  curves  lost  in  consequence.  It  is 
chiefly  given  to  show  the  irregular  and  fearless  freedom  of  the 
Byzantine  designers,  no  two  parts  of  the  foliage  being  corre- 
spondent ; in  the  original  it  is  of  white  marble,  the  ground  be- 
ing colored  blue. 

Plate  X.  Vol.  II.  represents  the  four  principal  orders  of 
Venetian  capitals  in  their  greatest  simplicity,  and  the  profiles 
of  the  most  interesting  examples  of  each.  The  figures  1 and 
4 are  the  two  great  concave  and  convex  groups,  and  2 and  3 
the  transitional.  Above  each  type  of  form  I have  put  also  an 
example  of  the  group  of  flowers  which  represent  it  in  nature  : 
fig.  1 has  a lily  ; fig.  2 a variety  of  the  Tulipa  sylvestris  ; figs. 
3 and  4 forms  of  the  magnolia.  I prepared  this  plate  in  the 
early  spring,  when  I could  not  get  any  other  examples,*  or  I 
would  rather  have  had  two  different  species  for  figs.  3 and  4 ; 
but  the  half -open  magnolia  will  answer  the  purpose,  showing 
the  beauty  of  the  triple  curvature  in  the  sides. 

I do  not  say  that  the  forms  of  the  capitals  are  actually  taken 
from  flowers,  though  assuredly  so  in  some  instances,  and  par- 
tially so  in  the  decoration  of  nearly  all.  But  they  were  de- 
signed by  men  of  pure  and  natural  feeling  for  beauty,  who 

* I am  afraid  that  the  kind  friend,  Lady  Trevelyan,  who  helped  me 
to  finish  this  plate,  will  not  like  to  be  thanked  here  ; but  I cannot  let 
her  send  into  Devonshire  for  magnolias,  and  draw  them  for  me.  without 
thanking  her. 


234 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


therefore  instinctively  adopted  the  forms  represented,  which 
are  afterwards  proved  to  be  beautiful  by  their  frequent  occur- 
rence in  common  flowers. 

The  convex  forms,  3 and  4,  are  put  lowest  in  the  plate  only 
because  they  are  heaviest ; they  are  the  earliest  in  date,  and 
have  already  been  enough  examined. 

I have  added  a plate  to  this  volume  (Plate  XII.),  which 
should  have  appeared  in  illustration  of  the  fifth  chapter  of  Yol. 
II.,  but  was  not  finished  in  time.  It  represents  the  central 
capital  and  two  of  the  lateral  ones  of  the  Fondaco  de’  Turclii, 
the  central  one  drawn  very  large,  in  order  to  show  the  exces- 
sive simplicity  of  its  chiselling,  together  with  the  care  and 
sharpness  of  it,  each  leaf  being  expressed  by  a series  of  sharp 
furrows  and  ridges.  Some  slight  errors  in  the  large  tracings 
from  which  the  engraving  was  made  have,  however,  occasioned 
a loss  of  spring  in  the  curves,  and  the  little  fig.  4 of  Plate  X. 
Vol.  II.  gives  a truer  idea  of  the  distant  effect  of  the  capital. 

The  profiles  given  in  Plate  X.  Vol.  II.  are  the  following : 

1.  a.  Main  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Madonnetta  House. 

b.  Main  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Casa  Falier. 

c . Lateral  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Fondaco  de1 * * * 5  Turchi. 

d.  Small  pillars  of  St.  Mark’s  Pulpit. 

e.  Casa  Farsetti. 

f.  Inner  capitals  of  arcade  of  Ducal  Palace. 

g.  Plinth  of  the  house  * at  Apostoli. 

h.  Main  capitals  of  house  at  Apostoli. 

i.  Main  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

a.  Lower  arcade,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

b,  c.  Lower  pillars,  house  at  Apostoli. 

d.  San  Simeon  Grande. 

Plate  X.  e . Restored  house  on  Grand  Canal.  Three  of  the  old 
Yol.  II.  2.  arches  left. 

f.  Upper  arcade,  Ducal  Palace. 

g.  Windows  of  third  order,  central  shaft,  Ducal  Palace 

* That  is,  the  house  in  the  parish  of  the  Apostoli,  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
noticed  in  Vol.  II.  ; and  see  also  the  Venetian  Index  under  head 
“ Apostoli.  ” 


APPENDIX. 


235 


h.  Windows  of  third  order,  lateral  shaft,  Ducal  Pah 

ace. 

i.  Ducal  Palace,  main  shafts. 
k.  Piazzetta  shafts. 

3.  a.  St.  Mark’s  Nave. 

b.  c.  Lily  capitals,  St.  Mark’s. 

а.  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  central  shaft,  upper  arcade. 

б.  Murano,  upper  arcade. 

c.  Murano,  lower  arcade. 

d.  Tomb  of  St.  Isidore. 

e.  General  late  Gothic  profile. 

The  last  two  sections  are  convex  in  effect,  though  not  in 
reality ; the  bulging  lines  being  carved  into  bold  flower-work. 

The  capitals  belonging  to  the  groups  1 and  2,  in  the  Byzan- 
tine times,  have  already  been  illustrated  in  Plate  VIII.  Vol. 
II. ; we  have  yet  to  trace  their  succession  in  the  Gothic  times. 
.This  is  done  in  Plate  II.  of  this  volume,  which  we  will  now 
examine  carefully.  The  following  are  the  capitals  represented 
in  that  plate  : 


1. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6. 

Plate  II.  7. 
Vol.  Ill  8. 
9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 

13. 

14. 

15. 


Small  shafts  of  St.  Mark’s  Pulpit. 

From  the  transitional  house  in  the  Calle  di  Kime- 
dio  (conf.  Vol.  II.). 

General  simplest  form  of  the  middle  Gothic  capital. 
Nave  of  San  Giacomo  de  Lorio.  „ 

Casa  Falier. 

Early  Gothic  house  in  Campo  Sta.  M4*  Mater 
Domini. 

House  at  the  Apostoli. 

Piazzetta  shafts. 

Ducal  Palace,  upper  arcade. 

Palace  of  Marco  Querini. 

Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

Gothic  palaces  in  Campo  San  Polo. 

Windows  of  fourth  order,  Plate  XVI.  Vol.  IL 
Nave  of  Church  of  San  Stefano. 

Late  Gothic  Palace  at  the  Miracoli. 


236 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


The  two  lateral  columns  form  a consecutive  series : the 
central  column  is  a group  of  exceptional  character,  running 
parallel  with  both.  We  will  take  the  lateral  ones  first,  1, 
Capital  of  pulpit  of  St.  Mark’s  (representative  of  the  simplest 
concave  forms  of  the  Byzantine  period).  Look  back  to  Plate 
VIII.  Vol.  II,  and  observe  that  while  all  the  forms  in  that  plate 
are  contemporaneous,  we  are  now  going  to  follow  a series  con- 
secutive in  time,  which  begins  from  fig.  1,  either  in  that  plate 
or  in  this  ; that  is  to  say,  with  the  simplest  possible  condition 
to  be  found  at  the  time  ; and  which  proceeds  to  develope  itself 
into  gradually  increasing  richness,  while  the  already  rich  capi- 
tals of  the  old  school  die  at  its  side.  In  the  forms  14  and  15 
(Plate  VIII.)  the  Byzantine  school  expired  ; but  from  the 
Byzantine  simple  capital  (1,  Plate  II.  above)  wThich  was  coex- 
istent with  them,  sprang  another  hardy  race  of  capitals,  whose 
succession  we  have  now  to  trace. 

The  form  1,  Plate  II.  is  evidently  the  simplest  conceivable 
condition  of  the  truncated  capital,  long  ago  represented  gen- 
erally in  Vol.  I,  being  only  rounded  a little  on  its  side  to  fit 
it  to  the  shaft.  The  next  step  was  to  place  a leaf  beneath 
each  of  the  truncations  (fig.  4,  Plate  II.,  San  Giacomo  de 
Lorio),  the  end  of  the  leaf  curling  over  at  the  top  in  a some- 
what formal  spiral,  partly  connected  with  the  traditional  vo- 
lute of  the  Corinthian  capital.  The  sides  are  then  enriched 
by  the  addition  of  some  ornament,  as  a shield  (fig.  7)  or  rose 
(fig.  10),  and  we  have  the  formed  capital  of  the  early  Gothic. 
Fig.  10,  being  from  the  palace  of  Marco  Querini,  is  certainly 
not  later  than  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  (see  Vol. 
II),  and  fig.  7,  is,  I believe,  of  the  same  date  ; it  is  one  of  the 
bearing  capitals  of  the  lower  story  of  the  palace  at  the  Apostolic 
and  is  remarkably  fine  in  the  treatment  of  its  angle  leaves, 
which  are  not  deeply  under-cut,  but  show  their  magnificent 
sweeping  under  surface  all  the  way  down,  not  as  a leaf  surface, 
but  treated  like  the  gorget  of  a helmet,  with  a curved  line 
across  it  like  that  where  the  gorget  meets  the  mail.  I never 
saw  anything  finer  in  simple  design.  Fig.  10  is  given  chiefly 
as  a certification  of  date,  and  to  show  the  treatment  of  the 
capitals  of  this  school  on  a small  scale.  Observe  the  more  ex- 


APPENDIX. 


237 


pansive  head  in  proportion  to  the  diameter  of  the  shaft,  the 
leaves  being  drawn  from  the  angles,  as  if  gathered  in  the  hand, 
till  their  edges  meet ; and  compare  the  rule  given  in  Yol.  I. 
Chap.  IX.  § xiv.  The  capitals  of  the  remarkable  house,  of 
which  a portion  is  represented  in  Fig.  XXXI.  Vol.  II.,  are 
most  curious  and  pure  examples  of  this  condition  ; with  ex- 
perimental trefoils,  roses,  and  leaves  introduced  between  their 
volutes..  When  compared  with  those  of  the  Querini  Palace, 
they  form  one  of  the  most  important  evidences  of  the  date  of 
the  building. 

Fig.  13.  One  of  the  bearing  capitals,  already  drawn  on  a 
small  scale  in  the  windows  represented  in  Plate  XVI.  Yol.  II. 

Now,  observe.  The  capital  of  the  form  of  fig.  10  appeared 
sufficient  to  the  Venetians  for  all  ordinary  purposes  ; and  they 
used  it  in  common  windows  to  the  latest  Gothic  periods,  but 
yet  with  certain  differences  which  at  once  show  the  lateness 
of  the  work.  In  the  first  place,  the  rose,  which  at  first  was 
flat  and  quatrefoiled,  becomes,  after  some  experiments,  a round 
ball  dividing  into  three  leaves,  closely  resembling  our  English 
ball  flower,  and  probably  derived  from  it  ; and,  in  other  cases, 
forming  a bold  projecting  bud  in  various  degrees  of  contrac- 
tion or  expansion.  In  the  second  place,  the  extremities  of 
the  angle  leaves  are  wrought  into  rich  flowing  lobes,  and  bent 
back  so  as  to  lap  against  their  own  breasts ; showing  lateness 
of  date  in  exact  proportion  to  the  looseness  of  curvature.  Fig. 
3 represents  the  general  aspect  of  these  later  capitals,  which 
may  be  conveniently  called  the  rose  capitals  of  Venice  ; two 
are  seen  on  service,  in  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  I.,  showing  compara- 
tively early  date  by  the  experimental  form  of  the  six-ioiled 
rose.  But  for  elaborate  edifices  this  form  was  not  sufficiently 
.rich  ; and  there  was  felt  to  be  something  awkward  in  the  junc- 
tion of  the  leaves  at  the  bottom.  Therefore,  four  other  shorter 
leaves  were  added  at  the  sides,  as  in  fig.  13,  Plate  II.,  and  as 
generally  represented  in  Plate  X.  Vol.  II.  fig,  1.  This  was  a 
good  and  noble  step,  taken  very  early  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury  ; and  all  the  best  Venetian  capitals  were  thenceforth  of 
this  form.  Those  which  followed,  and  rested  in  the  common 
rose  type,  were  languid  ?md  unfortunate  : I do  not  know  a 


’ 238 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


single  good  example  of  them  after  the  first  half  of  the  thin 
teenth  century. 

But  the  form  reached  in  fig.  13  was  quickly  felt  to  be  of 
great  value  and  power.  One  would  have  thought  it  might 
have  been  taken  straight  from  the  Corinthian  type  ; but  it  is 
clearly  the  work  of  men  who  were  making  experiments  for 
themselves.  For  instance,  in  the  central  capital  of  Fig.  XXXI. 
Yol:  II.,  there  is  a trial  condition  of  it,  with  the  intermediate 
leaf  set  behind  those  at  the  angles  (the  reader  had  better  take 
a magnifying  glass  to  this  woodcut  ; it  will  show  the  character 
of  the  capitals  better).  Two  other  experimental  forms  occur 
in  the  Casa  Cicogna  (Yol.  II. ),  and  supply  one  of  the  evidences 
which  fix  the  date  of  that  palace.  But  the  form  soon  was  de- 
termined as  in  fig.  13,  and  then  means  were  sought  of  recom- 
mending it  by  farther  decoration. 

The  leaves  which  are  used  in  fig.  13,  it  will  be  observed, 
have  lost  the  Corinthian  volute,  and  are  now  pure  and  plain 
leaves,  such  as  were  used  in  the  Lombardic  Gothic  of  the  early 
thirteenth  century  all  over  Italy.  Now  in  a round-arched  gate- 
way at  Verona,  certainly  not  later  than  1300  ; the  pointed 
leaves  of  this  pure  form  are  used  in  one  portion  of  the  mould- 
ings, and  in  another  are  enriched  by  having  their  surfaces 
carved  each  into  a beautiful  ribbed  and  pointed  leaf.  The 
capital,  fig.  6,  Plate  II.,  is  nothing  more  than  fig.  13  so  en- 
riched ; and  the  two  conditions  are  quite  contemporary,  fig. 
13  being  from  a beautiful  series  of  fourth  order  windows  in 
Campo  Sta.  Ma.  Mater  Domini,  already  drawn  in  my  folio 
work. 

Fig.  13  is  representative  of  the  richest  conditions  of  Gothic 
capital  which  existed  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
The  builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace  amplified  them  into  the  form . 
of  fig.  9,  but  varying  the  leafage  in  disposition  and  division  of 
lobes  in  every  capital ; and  the  workmen  trained  under  him ' 
executed  many  noble  capitals  for  the  Gothic  palaces  of  the 
early  fourteenth  century,  of  which  fig.  12,  from  a palace  in 
the  Campo  St.  Polo,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  examples. 
In  figs.  9 and  12  the  reader  sees  the  Venetian  Gothic  capital 
in  its  noblest  development  The  next  step  was  to  such  forms 


APPENDIX. 


239 


as  fig.  15,  which  is  generally  characteristic  of  the  late  four- 
teenth and  early  fifteenth  century  Gothic,  and  of  which  I hope 
the  reader  will  at  once  perceive  the  exaggeration  and  corrup- 
tion. 

This  capital  is  from  a palace  near  the  Miracoli,  and  it  is  re- 
markable for  the  delicate,  though  corrupt,  ornament  on  its 
abacus,  which  is  precisely  the  same  as  that  on  the  pillars  of 
the  screen  of  St.  Mark’s.  That  screen  is  a monument  of  very 
great  value,  for  it  shows  the  entire  corruption  of  the  Gothic 
power,  and  the  style  of  the  later  palaces  accurately  and  com- 
pletely defined  in  all  its  parts,  and  is  dated  1380  ; thus  at 
once  furnishing  us  with  a limiting  date,  which  throws  all  the 
noble  work  of  the  early  Ducal  Palace,  and  all  that  is  like  it  in 
Venice,  thoroughly  back  into  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth 
century  at  the  latest. 

Fig.  2 is  the  simplest  condition  of  the  capital  universally 
employed  in  the  windows  of  the  second  order,  noticed  above, 
Vol.  II.,  as  belonging  to  a style  of  great  importance  in  the 
transitional  architecture  of  Venice.  Observe,  that  in  all  the 
capitals  given  in  the  lateral  columns  in  Plate  II.,  the  points  of 
the  leaves  turn  over . But  in  this  central  group  they  lie  flat 
against  the  angle  of  the  capital,  and  form  a peculiarly  light 
and  lovely  succession  of  forms,  occurring  only  in  their  purity 
in  the  windows  of  the  second  order,  and  in  some  important 
monuments  connected  with  them. 

In  fig.  2 the  leaf  at  the  angle  is  cut,  exactly  in  the  manner 
of  an  Egyptian  bas-relief,  into  the  stone,  with  a raised  edge 
round  it,  and  a raised  rib  up  the  centre  ; and  this  mode  of 
execution,  seen  also  in  figs.  4 and  7,  is  one  of  the  collateral 
evidences  of  early  date.  But  in  figs.  5 and  8,  where  more 
elaborate  effect  was  required,  the  leaf  is  thrown  out  boldly 
with  an  even  edge  from  the  surface  of  the  capital,  and  en- 
riched on  its  own  surface  : and  as  the  treatment  of  fig.  2 cor- 
responds with  that  of  fig.  4,  so  that  of  fig.  5 corresponds  with 
that  of  fig.  6 ; 2 and  5 having  the  upright  leaf,  4 and  6 the 
bending  leaves  ; but  all  contemporary. 

Fig.  5 is  the  central  capital  of  the  windows  of  Casa  Falier, 
drawn  in  Plate  XV.  Vol.  II.  ; and  one  of  the  leaves  set  on  its 


240 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


angles  is  drawn  larger  at  fig.  7,  Plate  XX.  Yol.  II.  It  lias  no 
rib,  but  a sharp  raised  ridge  down  its  centre  ; and  its  lobes, 
of  which  the  reader  will  observe  the  curious  form, — round  in 
the  middle  one,  truncated  in  the  sides, — are  wrought  with  a 
precision  and  care  which  I have  hardly  ever  seen  equalled  : 
but  of  this  more  presently. 

The  next  figure  (8,  Plate  II.)  is  the  most  important  capital 
of  the  whole  transitional  period,  that  employed  on  the  two 
columns  of  the  Piazzetta.  These  pillars  are  said  to  have  been 
raised  in  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  but  I cannot  find 
even  the  most  meagre  account  of  their  bases,  capitals,  or, 
which  seems  to  me  most  wonderful,  of  that  noble  winged  lion, 
one  of  the  grandest  things  produced  by  mediaeval  art,  which 
all  men  admire,  and  none  can  draw.  I have  never  yet  seen  a 
faithful  representation  of  his  firm,  fierce,  and  fiery  strength. 
I believe  that  both  he  and  the  capital  which  bears  him  are 
late  thirteenth  century  work.  I have  not  been  up  to  the  lion, 
and  cannot  answer  for  it ; but  if  it  be  not  thirteenth  century 
work,  it  is  as  good  ; and  respecting  the  capitals,  there  can  be 
small  question.  They  are  of  exactly  the  date  of  the  oldest 
tombs,  bearing  crosses,  outside  of  St.  John  and  Paul ; and  are 
associated  with  all  the  other  work  of  the  transitional  period, 
from  1250  to  1300  (the  bases  of  these  pillars,  representing  the 
trades  of  Venice,  ought,  by  the  by,  to  have  been  mentioned  as 
among  the  best  early  efforts  of  Venetian  grotesque)  ; and,  be- 
sides, their  abaci  are  formed  by  four  reduplications  of  the 
dentilled  mouldings  of  St.  Mark’s,  which  never  occur  after 
the  year  1300. 

Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  or  original  than  the  adapta- 
tion of  these  broad  bearing  abaci ; but  as  they  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  capital  itself,  and  could  not  easily  be  brought  into 
the  space,  they  are  omitted  in  Plate  II.,  where  fig.  8 shows  the 
bell  of  the  capital  only.  Its  profile  is  curiously  subtle, — appar- 
ently concave  everywhere,  but  in  reality  concave  (all  the  way 
down)  only  on  the  angles,  and  slightly  convex  at  the  sides  (the 
profile  through  the  side  being  2 k , Plate  X.  Vol.  II.)  ; in  this 
subtlety  of  curvature,  as  well  as  in  the  simple  cross,  showing 
the  influence  of  early  times. 


APPLNDIX. 


241 


The  leaf  on  the  angle,  of  which  more  presently,  is  fig.  5,  Plate 
XX.  Yol.  II 

Connected  with  this  school  of  transitional  capitals  we  find  a 
form  in  the  later  Gothic,  such  as  fig.  14,  from  the  Church  of 
San  Stefano  ; but  which  appears  in  part  derived  from  an  old  and 
rich  Byzantine  type,  of  which  fig.  11,  from  the  Fondaco  de5 
Turchi,  is  a characteristic  example. 

I must  now  take  the  reader  one  step  farther,  and  ask  him  to 
examine,  finally,  the  treatment  of  the  leaves,  down  to  the  cutting 
of  their  most  minute  lobes,  in  the  series  of  capitals  of  which  we 
have  hitherto  only  sketched  the  general  forms. 

In  all  capitals  with  nodding  leaves,  such  as  6 and  9 in  Plate 
II.,  the  real  form  of  the  leaf  is  not  to  be  seen,  except  in  perspec- 
tive ; but,  in  order  to  render  the  comparison  more  easy,  I have 
in  Plate  XX.  Vol.  II.  opened  all  the  leaves  out,  as  if  they  were 
to  be  dried  in  a herbarium,  only  leaving  the  furrows  and  sin- 
uosities of  surface,  but  laying  the  outside  contour  nearly  flat 
upon  the  page,  except  for  a particular  reason  in  figs.  2,  10,  11, 
and  15. 

I shall  first,  as  usual,  give  the  references,  and  then  note  the 
points  of  interest. 

1,  2,  3.  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  upper  arcade. 

4.  Greek  pillars  brought  from  St.  Jean  d’Acre. 

5.  Piazzetta  shafts. 

6.  Madonnetta  House. 

Plate  XX.  7.  Casa  Falier. 

Vol.  II.  8.  Palace  near  St.  Eustachio. 

9.  Tombs,  outside  of  St.  John  and  Paul. 

10.  Tomb  of  Giovanni  Soranzo. 

11.  Tomb  of  Andrea  Dandolo. 

12.  13,  14.  Ducal  Palace. 

N.B.  The  upper  row,  1 to  4,  is  Byzantine,  the  next  tran- 
sitional, the  last  two  Gothic. 

Fig.  1.  The  leaf  of  the  capital  No.  6,  Plate  VIH.  Vol.  H 
Each  lobe  of  the  leaf  has  a sharp  furrow  up  to  its  point,  from 
its  root. 

Vol  III.— 16 


242 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Fig.  2.  The  leaf  of  the  capital  on  the  right  hand,  at  the 
top  of  Plate  XII.  in  this  volume.  The  lobes  worked  in  the 
same  manner,  with  deep  black  drill  holes  between  their 
points. 

Fig.  3.  One  of  the  leaves  of  fig.  14,  Plate  VHI.  Vol.  II.  fully 
unfolded.  The  lobes  worked  in  the  same  manner,  but  left  shal- 
low, so  as  not  to  destroy  the  breadth  of  light  ; the  central  line 
being  drawn  by  drill  holes,  and  the  interstices  between  lobes 
cut  black  and  deep. 

Fig.  4.  Leaf  with  flower ; pure  Byzantine  work,  showing 
whence  the  treatment  of  all  the  other  leaves  has  been  derived. 

Fig.  6.  For  the  sake  of  symmetry,  this  is  put  in  the  cen- 
tre : it  is  the  earliest  of  the  three  in  this  row  ; ‘taken  from  the 
Madonnetta  House,  where  the  capitals  have  leaves  both  at 
their  sides  and  angles.  The  tall  angle  leaf,  with  its  two  lateral 
ones,  is  given  in  the  plate  ; and  there  is  a remarkable  distinc- 
tion in  the  mode  of  workmanship  of  these  leaves,  which, 
though  found  in  a palace  of  the  Byzantine  period,  is  indica- 
tive of  a tendency  to  transition  ; namely,  that  the  sharp  fur- 
row is  now  drawn  only  to  the  central  lobe  of  each  division  of  the 
leaf,  and  the  rest  of  the  surface  of  the  leaf  is  left  nearly  flat, 
a slight  concavity  only  marking  the  division  of  the  extremi- 
ties. At  the  base  of  these  leaves  they  are  perfectly  flat,  only 
cut  by  the  sharp  and  narrow  furrow,  as  an  elevated  table-land 
is  by  ravines. 

Fig.  5.  A more  advanced  condition ; the  fold  at  the  recess, 
between  each  division  of  the  leaf,  carefully  expressed,  and  the 
concave  or  depressed  portions  of  the  extremities  marked  more 
deeply,  as  well  as  the  central  furrow,  and  a rib  added  in  the 
centre. 

Fig.  7.  A contemporary,  but  more  finished  form  ; the 
sharp  furrows  becoming  softer,  and  the  whole  leaf  more 
flexible. 

Fig.  8.  An  exquisite  form  of  the  same  period,  but  show- 
ing still  more  advanced  naturalism,  from  a very  early  group  of 
third  order  windows,  near  the  Church  of  St.  Eustachio  on  the 
Grand  Canal. 

Fig.  9.  Of  the  same  time,  from  a small  capital  of  an  angle 


APPENDIX. 


243 


shaft  of  the  sarcophagi  at  the  side  of  St.  John  and  Paul,  in  the 
little  square  which  is  adorned  by  the  Colleone  statue.  This 
leaf  is  very  quaint  and  pretty  in  giving  its  midmost  lateral 
divisions  only  two  lobes  each,  instead  of  the  usual  three  or 
four. 

Fig.  10.  Leaf  employed  in  the  cornice  of  the  tomb  of  the 
Doge  Giovanni  Soranzo,  who  died  in  1312.  It  nods  over,  and 
has  three  ribs  on  its  upper  surface  ; thus  giving  us  the  com- 
pleted ideal  form  of  the  leaf,  but  its  execution  is  still  very 
archaic  and  severe. 

Now  the  next  example,  fig.  11,  is  from  the  tomb  of  the  Doge 
Andrea  Dandolo,  and  therefore  executed  between  1354  and 
1360  ; and  this  leaf  shows  the  Gothic  naturalism  and  refine- 
ment of  curvature  fully  developed.  In  this  forty  years’  inter- 
val, then,  the  principal  advance  of  Gothic  sculpture  is  to  be 
placed. 

I had  prepared  a complete  series  of  examples,  showing  this 
advance,  and  the  various  ways  in  which  the  separations  of  the 
ribs,  a most  characteristic  feature,  are  more  and  more  delicately 
and  scientifically  treated,  from  the  beginning  to  the  middle  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  but  I feared  that  no  general  reader 
would  care  to  follow  mo  into  these  minutiae,  and  have  cancelled 
this  portion  of  the  work,  at  least  for  the  present,  the  main  point 
being,  that  the  reader  should  feel  the  full  extent  of  the  change, 
which  he  can  hardly  fail  to  do  in  looking  from  fig.  10  to  figs. 
11  and  12.  I believe  that  fig.  12  is  the  earlier  of  the  two  ; 
and  it  is  assuredly  the  finer,  having  all  the  elasticity  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  earliest  forms,  with  perfect  flexibility  added.  In 
fig.  11  there  is  a perilous  element  beginning  to  develope  itself 
into  one  feature,  namely,  the  extremities  of  the  leaves,- which, 
instead  of  merely  nodding  over,  now  curl  completely  round 
into  a kind  of  ball.  This  occurs  early,  and  in  the  finest  Gothic 
work,  especially  in  cornices  and  other  running  mouldings: 
but  it  is  a fatal  symptom,  a beginning  of  the  intemperance  of 
the  later  Gothic,  and  it  was  followed  out  with  singular  avidity  ; 
the  ball  of  coiled  leafage  increasing  in  size  and  complexity,  and 
at  last  becoming  the  principal  feature  of  the  work  ; the  light 
striking  on  its  vigorous  projection,  as  in  fig.  14.  Nearly  all 


244 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  Renaissance  Gothic  of  Venice  depends  upon  these  balls 
for  effect,  a late  capital  being  generally  composed  merely  of 
an  upper  and  lower  range  of  leaves  terminating  in  this 
manner. 

It  is  very  singular  and  notable  how,  in  this  loss  of  temper- 
ance, there  is  loss  of  life.  For  truly  healthy  and  living  leaves 
do  not  bind  themselves  into  knots  at  the  extremities.  They 
bend,  and  wave,  and  nod,  but  never  curl.  It  is  in  disease,  or 
in  death,  by  blight,  or  frost,  or  poison  only,  that  leaves  in 
general  assume  this  ingathered  form.  It  is  the  flame  of 
autumn  that  has  shrivelled  them,  or  the  web  of  the  caterpillar 
that  has  bound  them  : and  thus  the  last  forms  of  the  Venetian 
leafage  set  forth  the  fate  of  -Venetian  pride  ; and,  in  their  ut- 
most luxuriance  and  abandonment,  perish  as  if  eaten  of  worms. 

And  now,  by  glancing  back  to  Plate  X.  Vol.  II.,  the  reader 
will  see  in  a moment  the  kind  of  evidence  which  is  found  of 
the  date  of  capitals  in  their  profiles  merely.  Observe  : we 
have  seen  that  the  treatment  of  the  leaves  in  the  Madonnetta 
House  seemed  “indicative  of  a tendency  to  transition.”  Note 
their  profile,  la,  and  its  close  correspondence  with  1 h,  which 
is  actually  of  a transitional  capital  from  the  upper  arcade  of 
second  order  windows  in  the  Apostoli  Palace  ; yet  both  shown 
to  be  very  close  to  the  Byzantine  period,  if  not  belonging  to  it, 
by  their  fellowship  with  the  profile  i,  from  the  Fondaco  de 
Turchi.  Then  note  the  close  correspondence  of  all  the  other 
profiles  in  that  line,  which  belong  to  the  concave  capitals  or 
plinths  of  the  Byzantine  palaces,  and  note  their  composition, 
the  abacus  being,  in  idea,  merely  an  echo  or  reduplication  of 
the  capital  itself  ; as  seen  in  perfect  simplicity  in  the  profile/, 
which  is  a roll  under  a tall  concave  curve  forming  the  bell  of 
the  capital,  with  a roll  and  short  concave  curve  for  its  abacus. 
This  peculiar  abacus  is  an  unfailing  test  of  early  date  ; and 
our  finding  this  simple  profile  used  for  the  Ducal  Palace  (/)• 
is  strongly  confirmatory  of  all  our  former  conclusions. 

Then  the  next  row,  2,  are  the  Byzantine  and  early  Gothic 
semi-convex  curves,  in  their  pure  forms,  having  no  roll  below ; 
but  often  with  a roll  added,  as  at/,  and  in  certain  early  Gothic 
conditions  curiously  fused  into  it,  with  a cavetto  between,  as  b, 


APPENDIX . 


245 


c,  d.  But  the  more  archaic  form  is  as  at  f and  k ; and  as  these 
two  profiles  are  from  the  Ducal  Palace  and  Piazzetto  shafts, 
they  join  again  with  the  rest  of  the  evidence  of  their  early  date. 
The  profiles  i and  k are  both  most  beautiful  ; i is  that  of  the 
great  capitals  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  the  small  profiles  be- 
tween it  and  k are  the  varieties  used  on  the  fillet  at  its  base. 
The  profile  i should  have  had  leaves  springing  from  it,  as  1 h 
has,  only  more  boldly,  but  there  was  no  room  for  them. 

The  reader  cannot  fail  to  discern  at  a glance  the  fellowship 
of  the  whole  series  of  profiles,  2 a to  k}  nor  can  he  but  with 
equal  ease  observe  a marked  difference  in  4 d and  4 e from 
any  others  in  the  plate  ; the  bulging  outlines  of  leafage  being 
indicative  of  the  luxuriant  and  flowing  masses,  no  longer  ex- 
pressible with  a simple  line,  but  to  be  considered  only  as  con- 
fined within  it,  of  the  later  Gothic.  Now  d is  a dated  profile 
from  the  tomb  of  St.  Isidore,  1355,  which  by  its  dog-tooth 
abacus  and  heavy  leafage  distinguishes  itself  from  all  the  other 
profiles,  and  therefore  throws  them  back  into  the  first  half  of 
the  century.  But,  observe,  it  still  retains  the  noble  swelling 
root.  This  character  soon  after  vanishes  ; and,  in  1380,  the 
profile  e,  at  once  heavy,  feeble,  and  ungraceful,  with  a meagre 
and  valueless  abacus  hardly  discernible,  is  characteristic  of  all 
the  capitals  of  Venice. 

Note,  finally,  this  contraction  of  the  abacus.  Compare  4 c, 
which  is  the  earliest  form  in  the  plate,  from  Murano,  with  4 e, 
which  is  the  latest.  The  other  profiles  show  the  gradual  pro- 
cess of  change  ; only  observe,  in  3 a the  abacus  is  not  drawn  ; 
it  is  so  bold  that  it  would  not  come  into  the  plate  without  re- 
ducing the  bell  curve  to  too  small  a scale. 

So  much  for  the  evidence  derivable  from  the  capitals  ; wre 
have  next  to  examine  that  of  the  archivoltsor  arch  mouldings. 

IV,  Archivolts. 

In  Plate  VIII.,  opposite,  are  arranged  in  one  view  all  the 
conditions  of  Byzantine  arcliivolt  employed  in  Venice,  on  a 
large  scale.  It  will  be  seen  in  an  instant  that  there  can  be  no 
mistaking  the  manner  of  their  masonry.  The  soffit  of  the 
arch  is  the  horizontal  line  at  the  bottom  of  all  these  profiles, 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


24G 

and  each  of  them  (except  13,  14)  is  composed  of  two  slabs  oi 
marble,  one  for  the  soffit,  another  for  the  face  of  the  arch , the 
one  on  the  soffit  is  worked  on  the  edge  into  a roll  (fig.  10)  or 
dentil  (fig.  9),  and  the  one  on  the  face  is  bordered  on  the 
other  side  by  another  piece  let  edgeways  into  the  wall,  and 
also  worked  into  a roll  or  dentil  : in  the  richer  arclii volts  a 
cornice  is  added  to  this  roll,  as  in  figs.  1 and  4,  or  takes  its 
place,  as  in  figs.  1,  3,  5,  and  6 ; and  in  such  richer  examples 
the  facestone,  and  often  the  soffit,  are  sculptured,  the  sculpt- 
ure being  cut  into  their  surfaces,  as  indicated  in  fig.  11.  The 
concavities  cut  in  the  facestones  of  1,  2,  4,  5,  6 are  all  indica- 
tive of  sculpture  in  effect  like  that  of  Fig.  XXVI.  Vol.  II.,  of 
which  archivolt  fig.  5,  here,  is  the  actual  profile.  The  follow- 
ing  are  the  references  to  the  whole  : 

1.  Eio-Foscari  House. 

2.  Terraced  House,  entrance  door. 

3.  Small  Porticos  of  St.  Mark’s,  external  arches. 

4.  Arch  on  the  canal  at  Ponte  St.  Toma. 

5.  Arch  of  Corte  del  Eemer. 

6.  Great  outermost  archivolt  of  central  door,  St. 

Mark’s. 

Plate  VHI.  7.  Inner  archivolt  of  southern  porch,  St.  Mark’s 
Vol.  HI.  Facade. 

8.  Inner  archivolt  of  central  entrance,  St.  Mark’s. 

9.  Fondaco  de’  Turclii,  main  arcade. 

10.  Byzantine  restored  house  on  Grand  Canal, 

lower  arcade. 

11.  Terraced  House,  upper  arcade. 

12.  Inner  archivolt  of  northern  porch  of  facade, 

St.  Mark’s. 

13  and  14.  Transitional  forms. 

There  is  little  to  be  noted  respecting  these  forms,  except 
that,  in  fig.  1,  the  two  lower  rolls,  with  the  angular  projec- 
tions between,  represent  the  fall  of  the  mouldings  of  two 
proximate  arches  on  the  abacus  of  the  bearing  shaft ; their 
two  cornices  meeting  each  other,  and  being  gradually  nar- 


V 

fl 

1 

rwH 

" !r|jd 

f|gj 

~ . 'J 

Plate  VIII. — Byzantine  Archiyolts. 


APPENDIX. 


247 


rowed  into  the  little  angular  intermediate  piece,  their  sculpt- 
ures being  slurred  into  the  contracted  space,  a curious  proof 
of  the  earliness  of  the  work.  The  real  archivolt  moulding 
is  the  same  as  fig.  4 c c,  including  only  the  midmost  of  the 
three  rolls  in  fig.  1. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  2,  5,  6,  and  8 are  sculptured  on  the 
soffits  as  well  as  the  faces  ; 9 is  the  common  profile  of  arches 
decorated  only  with  colored  marble,  the  facestone  being  colored, 
the  soffit  white.  The  effect  of  such  a moulding  is  seen  in  the 
small  windows  at  the  right  hand  of  Fig.  XXVI.  Yol.  II. 

The  reader  will  now  see  that  there  is  but  little  difficulty  in 
identifying  Byzantine  work,  the  archivolt  mouldings  being  so 
similar  among  themselves,  and  so  unlike  any  others.  We  have 
next  to  examine  the  Gothic  forms. 

Figs.  13  and  14  in  Plate  VIII.  represent  the  first  brick 
mouldings  of  the  transitional  period,  occurring  in  such  instances 
as  Fig.  XXIII.  or  Fig.  XXXIII.  Yol.  II.  (the  soffit  stone  of  the 
Byzantine  mouldings  being  taken  away),  and  this  profile,  trans- 
lated into  solid  stone,  forms  the  almost  universal  moulding  of 
the  windows  of  the  second  order.  These  two  brick  mouldings 
are  repeated,  for  the  sake  of  comparison,  at  the  top  of  Plate  IX. 
opposite  ; and  the  upper  range  of  mouldings  which  they  com- 
mence, in  that  plate,  are  the  brick  mouldings  of  Venice  in  the 
early  Gothic  period.  All  the  forms  below”  are  in  stone  ; and  the 
moulding  2,  translated  into  stone,  forms  the  universal  archivolt 
of  the  early  pointed  arches  of  Venice,  and  windows  of  second 
and  third  orders.  The  moulding  1 is  much  rarer,  and  used 
for  the  most  part  in  doors  only. 

The  reader  will  see  at  once  the  resemblance  of  character  in 
the  various  flat  brick  mouldings,  3 to  11.  They  belong  to  such 
arches  as  1 and  2 in  Plate  XVII.  Vol.  II.  ; or  6 b,  6 c,  in  Plate 
XIV.  Vol.  II.,  7 and  8 being  actually  the  mouldings  of  those 
two  doors  ; the  whole  group  being  perfectly  defined,  and  sepa- 
rate from  all  the  other  Gothic  w7ork  in  Venice,  and  clearly  the 
result  of  an  effort  to  imitate,  in  brickwork,  the  effect  of  the  flat 
sculptured  arcliivolts  of  the  Byzantine  times.  (See  Vol.  II. 
Chap.  VII.  § xxxyii.) 

Then  comes  the  group  14  to  18  in  stone,  derived  from  the 


248 


THE  STONES  OF . VENICE 


mouldings  1 and  2 ; first  by  truncation,  14 ; then  by  beading 
the  truncated  angle,  15,  16.  The  occurrence- of  the  profile  16 
in  the  three  beautiful  windows  represented  in  the  uppermost 
figure  of  Plate  XVIII.  Vol.  I.  renders  that  group  of  peculiar 
interest,  and  is  strong  evidence  of  its  antiquity.  Then  a cavetto 
is  added,  17  ; first  shallow  and  then  deeper,  18,  which  is  the 
common  archivolt  moulding  of  the  central  Gothic  door  and  win- 
dow : but,  in  the  windows  of  the  early  fourth  order,  this  mould- 
ing is  complicated  by  various  additions  of  dog-tooth  mouldings 
under  the  dentil,  as  in  20  ; or  the  gabled  dentil  (see  fig.  20,  Plate 
IX.  Vol.  I),  as  fig.  21  ; or  both,  as  figs.  23,  24.  All  these  varie- 
ties expire  in  the  advanced  period,  and  the  established  mould- 
ing for  windows  is  29.  The  intermediate  group,  25  to  28,  I 
found  only  in  the  high  windows  of  the  third  order  in  the  Ducal 
Palace,  or  in  the  Chapter-house  of  the  Frari,  or  in  the  arcades 
of  the  Ducal  Palace  ; the  great  outside  lower  arcade  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  has  the  profile  31,  the  left-hand  side  being  the 
innermost. 

Now  observe,  all  this  archivolts,  without  exception,  assume 
that  the  spectator  looks  from  the  outside  only  : none  are  com- 
plete on  both  sides  ; they  are  essentially  window  mouldings, 
and  have  no  resemblance  to  those  of  our  perfect  Gothic  arches 
prepared  for  traceries.  If  they  were  all  completely  drawn  in 
the  plate,  they  should  be-  as  fig.  25,  having  a great  depth  of 
wall  behind  the  mouldings,  but  it  was  useless  to  represent  this 
in  every  ease.  The  Ducal  Palace  begins  to  show  mouldings 
on  both  sides,  28,  31  ; and  35  is  a complete  arch  moulding 
from  the  apse  of  the  Frari.  That  moulding,  though  so  per- 
fectly developed,  is  earlier  than  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  with 
other  features  of  the  building,  indicates  the  completeness  of 
the  Gothic  system,  which  made  the  architect  of  the  Ducal 
Palace  found  his  work  principally  upon  that  church. 

The  other  examples  in  this  plate  show  the  various  modes 
of  combination  employed  in  richer  archivolts.  The  triple 
change  of  slope  in  38  is  very  curious.  The  references  are  as 
follows : 


Plate  IX.— Gothic  Archivolts. 


APPENDIX. 


249 


1. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6. 

7. 

8. 
9. 

10. 

11. 

12. 

13. 

14. 

15. 

Plate  IX.  16. 
Yol.  III.  17. 

18. 

19. 

20. 
21. 
22. 

23. 

24. 

25. 

26. 

27. 

28. 

29. 

30. 

31. 


Transitional  to  the  second  order. 

Common  second  order. 

Brick,  at  Corte  del  Forno,  Round  arch. 

Door  at  San  Giovanni  Grisostomo. 

Door  at  Sotto  Portico  della  Stua. 

Door  in  Campo  St.  Luca,  of  rich  brickwork. 
Round  door  at  Fondamenta  Venier. 

Pointed  door.  Fig.  6 c,  Plate  XIV.  Yol.  IL 
Great  pointed  arch,  Salizzada  San  Lio. 
Round  door  near  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

Door  with  Lion,  at  Ponte  della  Corona. 

San  Gregorio,  Fa£ade. 

St.  John  and  Paul,  Nave. 

Rare  early  fourth  order,  at  San  Cassan. 
General  early  Gothic  archivolt. 

Same,  from  door  in  Rio  San  G.  Grisostomo. 
Casa  Yittura. 

Casa  Sagredo,  Unique  thirds.  Yol.  II. 
Murano  Palace,  Unique  fourths.* 

Pointed  door  of  Four-Evangelist  House. f 
Keystone  door  in  Campo  St.  M.  Formosa. 
Rare  fourths,  at  St.  Pantaleon. 

Rare  fourths,  Casa  Papadopoli. 

Rare  fourths,  Chess  house.  J 
Thirds  of  Frari  Cloister. 

Great  pointed  arch  of  Frari  Cloister. 

Unique  thirds,  Ducal  Palace. 

Inner  Cortile,  pointed  arches,  Ducal  Palace. 
Common  fourth  and  fifth  order  Archivolt. 
Unique  thirds,  Ducal  Palace. 

Ducal  Palace,  lower  arcade. 


* Close  to  the  bridge  over  the  main  channel  through  Murano  is  a mas- 
sive foursquare  Gothic  palace,  containing  some  curious  traceries,  and 
many  unique  transitional  forms  of  window,  among  which  these  windows 
of  the  fourth  order  occur,  with  a roll  within  their  dentil  band. 

f Thus,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  we  may  generally  call  the  palace 
with  the  emblems  of  the  Evangelists  on  its  spandrils,'  Yol.  II. 

t The  house  with  chequers  like  a chess-board  on  its  spandrils,  given # 
in  my  folio  work. 


250 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


32. 

33. 

34. 

35. 

Plate  IX.  36. 
VoL  III  37. 

38. 

39. 

40. 


Casa  Priuli,  arches  in  the  inner  court. 

Circle  above  the  central  window,  Ducal  Palace, 
Murano  apse. 

Acute-pointed  arch,  Frari. 

Door  of  Accademia  delle  belle  Arti. 

Door  in  Calle  Tiossi,  near  Four-Evangelist 
House. 

Door  in  campo  San  Polo. 

Door  of  palace  at  Ponte  Marcello. 

Door  of  a palace  close  to  the  Church  of  the 
Miracoli, 


F.  Cornices . 

Plate  X.  represents,  in  one  view,  the  cornices  or  string- 
courses of  Venice,  and  the  abaci  of  its  capitals,  early  and  late  ; 
these  two  features  being  inseparably  connected,  as  explained 
in  Vol.  I. 

The  evidence  given  by  these  mouldings  is  exceedingly  clear. 
The  two  upper  lines  in  the  Plate,  1 — 11, 12 — 24,  are  all  plinths 
from  Byzantine  buildings.  The  reader  will  at  once  observe 
their  unmistakable  resemblances.  The  row  41  to  50  are  con- 
temporary abaci  of  capitals  ; 52,  53,  54,  56,  are  examples  of 
late  Gothic  abaci ; and  observe,  especially  these  are  all  rounded 
at  the  top  of  the  cavetto,  but  the  Byzantine  abaci  are  rounded, 
if  at  all,  at  the  bottom  of  the  cavetto  (see  7,  8,  9,  10,  20,  28, 
46).  Consider  what  a valuable  test  of  date  this  is,  in  any 
disputable  building. 

Again,  compare  28,  29,  one  from  St.  Mark’s,  the  other  from 
the  Ducal  Palace,  and  observe  the  close  resemblance,  giving 
farther  evidence  of  early  date  in  the  palace. 

25  and  50  are  drawn  to  the  same  scale.  The  former  is  the 
wall-cornice,  the  latter  the  abacus  of  the  great  shafts,  in  the 
Casa  Loredan  ; the  one  passing  into  the  other,  as  seen  in  Fig. 
XXVin.  Vol.  I.  It  is  curious  to  watch  the  change  in  propor- 
tion, while  the  moulding,  all  but  the  lower  roll,  remains  the 
same. 

The  following  are  the  references  : 


Plate  X. —Cornices  and  Abaci. 


APPENDIX. 


251 


Plate  X. 
Vol.  III. 


1.  Common  plinth  of  St.  Mark’s. 

2.  Plinth  above  lily  capitals,  St.  Mark’s. 

3.  4.  Plinths  in  early  surface  Gothic. 

5.  Plinth  of  door  in  Campo  St.  Luca. 

6.  Plinth  of  treasury  door,  St.  Mark’s. 

7.  Archi volts  of  nave,  St.  Mark’s. 

8.  Archivolts  of  treasury  door,  St.  Mark’s. 

9.  Moulding  of  circular  window  in  St.  John  and 

Paul. 

10.  Chief  decorated  narrow  plinth,  St.  Mark’s. 

11.  Plinth  of  door,  Campo  St.  Margherita. 

12.  Plinth  of  tomb  of  Doge  Vital  Falier. 

13.  Lower  plinth,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  and  Terraced 

House. 

14.  Running  plinth  of  Corte  del  Remer. 

15.  Highest  plinth  at  top  of  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

16.  Common  Byzantine  plinth. 

17.  Running  plinth  of  Casa  Falier. 

18.  Plinth  of  arch  at  Ponte  St  Toma. 

19.  20,  21.  Plinths  of  tomb  of  Doge  Vital  Falier. 

22.  Plinth  of  window  in  Calle  del  Pistor. 

23.  Plinth  of  tomb  of  Dogaressa  Vital  Michele. 

24.  Archivolt  in  the  Frari. 

.25.  Running  plinth,  Casa  Loredan. 

26.  Running  plinth,  under  pointed  arch,  in  Saliz 

zada  San  Lio. 

27.  Running  plinth,  Casa  Erizzo. 

28.  Circles  in  portico  of  St.  Mark’s. 

29.  Ducal  Palace  cornice,  lower  arcade. 

30.  Ducal  Palace  cornice,  upper  arcade. 

31.  Central  Gothic  plinth. 

32.  Late  Gothic  plinth. 

33.  Late  Gothic  plinth,  Casa  degli  Ambasciatori 

34.  Late  Gothic  plinth,  Palace  near  the  Jesuiti. 

35.  36.  Central  balcony  cornice. 

37.  Plinth  of  St.  Mark’s  balustrade. 

38.  Cornice  of  the  Frari,  in  brick,  cabled. 

39.  Central  balcony  plinth. 


252 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


40. 

41. 

42. 

43. 

44. 

45. 

46. 

47. 

Plate  X.  48. 
Vol.  Ill  49. 

50. 

51. 

52. 

53. 

54. 

55. 

56. 

57. 

58. 


Uppermost  cornice,  Ducal  Palace. 
Abacus  of  lily  capitals,  St.  Mark’s. 
Abacus,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

Abacus,  large  capital  of  Terraced  House. 
Abacus,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

Abacus,  Ducal  Palace,  upper  arcade. 
Abacus,  Corte  del  Berner. 

Abacus,  small  pillars,  St.  Mark’s  pulpit. 
Abacus,  Murano  and  Torcello. 

Abacus,  Casa  Farsetti. 

Abacus,  Casa  Loredan,  lower  story. 
Abacus,  capitals  of  Frari. 

Abacus,  Casa  Cavalli  (plain). 

Abacus,  Casa  Priuli  (flowered). 

Abacus,  Casa  Foscari  (plain). 

Abacus,  Casa  Priuli  (flowered). 

Abacus,  Plate  II.  fig.  15. 

Abacus,  St.  John  and  Paul. 

Abacus,  St.  Stefano. 


It  is  only  farther  to  be  noted,  that  these  mouldings  are  used 
in  various  proportions,  for  all  kinds  of  purposes : sometimes 
for  true  cornices  ; sometimes  for  window-sills  ; sometimes,  3 
and  4 (in  the  Gothic  time)  especially,  for  dripstones  of  gables : 
11  and  such  others  form  little  plinths  or  abaci  at  the  spring 
of  arches,  such  as  those  shown  at  a,  Fig.  XXIII.  Vol.  II.  Fi- 
nally, a large  number  of  superb  Byzantine  cornices  occur,  of 
the  form  shown  at  the  top  of  the  arch  in  Plate  V.  Vol.  H., 
having  a profile  like  16  or  19  here  ; with  nodding  leaves  of 
acanthus  thrown  out  from  it,  being,  in  fact,  merely  one  range 
of  the  leaves  of  a Byzantine  capital  unwrapped,  and  formed 
into  a continuous  line.  I had  prepared  a large  mass  of  ma- 
terials for  the  illustration  of  these  cornices,  and  the  Gothic 
ones  connected  with  them  ; but  found  the  subject  would 
take  up  another  volume,  and  was  forced,  for  the  present,  to 
abandon  it.  The  lower  series  of  profiles,  7 to  12  in  Plate  XV. 
Vol.  I,  shows  how  the  leaf-ornament  is  laid  on  the  simple 
early  cornices. 


APPENDIX. 


253 


VI.  Traceries. 

We  have  only  one  subject  more  to  examine,  the  character 
of  the  early  and  late  Tracery  Bars. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  have  been  surprised  at  the  small 
attention  given  to  traceries  in  the  course  of  the  preceding 
volumes  : but  the  reason  is,  that  there  are  no  complicated 
traceries  at  Venice  belonging  to  the  good  Gothic  time,  with 
the  single  exception  of  those  of  the  Casa  Cicogna  ; and  the 
magnificent  arcades  of  the  Ducal  Palace  Gothic  are  so  simple 
as  to  require  little  explanation. 

There  are,  however,  two  curious  circumstances  in  the  later 
traceries  ; the  first,  that  they  are  universally  considered  by 
the  builder  (as  the  old  Byzantines  considered  sculptured 
surfaces  of  stone)  as-  material  out  of  which  a certain  portion  is 
to  be  cut,  to  fill  his  window.  A fine  Northern  Gothic  tracery  is 
a complete  and  systematic  arrangement  of  arches  and  foliation, 
adjusted  to  the  form  of  the  window  ; but  a Venetian  tracery 
is  a piece  of  a larger  composition,  cut  to  the  shape  of  the 
window.  In  the  Porta  della  Carta,  in  the  Church  of  the 
Madonna  dell*  Orto,  in  the  Casa  Bernardo  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
in  the  old  Church  of  the  Misericordia,  and  wherever  else 
there  are  rich  traceries  in  Venice,  it  will  always  be  found 
that  a certain  arrangement  of  quatrefoils  and  other  figures 
has  been  planned  as  if  it  were  to  extend  indefinitely  into 
miles  of  arcade  ; and  out  of  this  colossal  piece  of  marble  lace, 
a piece  in  the  shape  of  a window  is  cut,  mercilessly  and  fear- 
lessly : whatever  fragments  and  odd  shapes  of  interstice, 
remnants  of  this  or  that  figure  of  the  divided  foliation,  may 
occur  at  the  edge  of  the  window,  it  matters  not ; all  are  cut 
across,  and  shut  in  by  the  great  outer  ar  chi  volt. 

It  is  very  curious  to  find  the  Venetians  treating  what  in  other 
countries  became  of  so  great  individual  importance,  merely 
as  a kind  of  diaper  ground,  like  that  of  their  chequered  colors 
on  the  walls.  There  is  great  grandeur  in  the  idea,  though 
the  system  of  their  traceries  was  spoilt  by  it : but  they  always 
treated  their  buildings  as  masses  of  color  rather  than  of  line  ; 
and  the  great  traceries  of  the  Ducal  Palace  itself  are  not 


254 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


spared  any  more  than  those  of  the  minor  palaces.  They  are 
cut  off  at  the  flanks  in  the  middle  of  the  quatrefoils,  and  the 
terminal  mouldings  take  up  part  of  the  breadth  of  the  poor 
half  of  a quatrefoil  at  the  extremity. 

One  other  circumstance  is  notable  also.  In  good  Northern 
Gothic  the  tracery  bars  are  of  a constant  profile,  the  same  on 
both  sides ; and  if  the  plan  of  the  tracery  leaves  any  in- 
terstices so  small  that  there  is  not  room  for  the  full  profile  of 
the  tracery  bar  all  round  them,  those  interstices  are  entirely 
closed,  the  tracery  bars  being  supposed  to  have  met  each 
other.  But  in  Venice,  if  an  interstice  becomes  anywhere 
inconveniently  small,  the  tracery  bar  is  sacrificed  ; cut  away, 
or  in  some  way  altered  in  profile,  in  order  to  afford  more 
room  for  the  light,  especially  in  the  early  traceries,  so  that 
one  side  of  a tracery  bar  is  often  quite  different  from  the 
other.  For  instance,  in  the  bars  1 and  2,  Plate  XL,  from  the 
Frari  and  St.  John  and  Paul,  the  uppermost  side  is  towards  a 
great  opening,  and  there  was  room  for  the  bevel  or  slope  to 
the  cusp  ; but  in  the  other  side  the  opening  was  too  small,  and 
the  bar  falls  vertically  to  the  cusp.  In  5 the  uppermost  side 
is  to  the  narrow  aperture,  and  the  lower  to  the  small  one  ; 
and  in  fig.  9,  from  the  Casa  Cicogna,  the  uppermost  side  is 
to  the  apertures  of  the  tracery,  the  lowermost  to  the  arches 
beneath,  the  great  roll  following  the  design  of  the  tracery  ; 
while  13  and  14  are  left  without  the  roll  at  the  base  of  their 
cavettos  on  the  uppermost  sides,  which  are  turned  to  narrow 
apertures.  The  earliness  of  the  Casa  Cicogna  tracery  is  seen 
in  a moment  by  its  being  moulded  on  the  face  only.  It  is  in 
fact  nothing  more  than  a series  of  quatrefoiled  apertures  in 
the  solid  wall  of  the  house,  with  mouldings  on  their  faces, 
and  magnificent  arches  of  pure  pointed  fifth  order  sustaining 
them  below. 

The  following  are  the  references  to  the  figures  in  the  plate : 

1.  Frari. 

2.  Apse,  St.  John  and  Paul. 

3.  Frari. 

4.  Ducal  Palace,  inner  court,  upper  window. 


Plate  XI. 

Vol.  HI. 


Plate  XL— Tracery  Bars, 


APPENDIX ; 


255 


Plate  XL 
Yol.  III. 


5.  Madonna  dell’  Orto. 

6.  St.  John  and  Paul. 

7.  Casa  Bernardo. 

8.  Casa  Contarini  Fasan. 

9.  Casa  Cicogna. 

10.  11.  Frari. 

12.  Murano  Palace  (see  note,  p.  249). 

13.  Misericordia. 

14.  Palace  of  the  younger  Foscari.* 

15.  Casa  d’  Oro  ; great  single  windows. 

16.  Hotel  Danieli. 

17.  Ducal  Palace. 

18.  Casa  Erizzo,  on  Grand  Canal. 

19.  Main  story,  Casa  Cavalli. 

20.  Younger  Foscari. 

21.  Ducal  Palace,  traceried  windows. 

22.  Porta  della  Carta. 

23.  Casa  d’  Oro. 

24.  Casa  d’  Oro,  upper  story. 

25.  Casa  Facanon. 

26.  Casa  Cavalli,  near  Post-Office. 


It  will  be  seen  at  a glance  that,  except  in  the  very  early  fillet 
traceries  of  the  Frari  and  St.  John  and  Paul,  Venetian  work 
consists  of  roll  traceries  of  one  general  pattern.  It  will  be  seen 
also,  that  10  and  11  from  the  Frari,  furnish  the  first  examples 
of  the  form  afterwards  completely  developed  in  17,  the  tracery 
bar  of  the  Ducal  Palace  ; but  that  this  bar  differs  from  them 
in  greater  strength  and  squareness,  and  in  adding  a recess  be- 
tween its  smaller  roll  and  the  cusp.  Observe,  that  this  is  done 
for  strength  chiefly ; as,  in  the  contemporary  tracery  (21)  of 
the  upper  windows,  no  such  additional  thickness  is  used. 

Figure  17  is  slightly  inaccurate.  The  little  curved  recesses 
behind  the  smaller  roll  are  not  equal  on  each  side  ; that  next 
the  cusp  is  smallest,  being  about  § of  an  inch,  while  that  next 

* The  palace  next  the  Casa  Foscari,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  sometimes 
said  to  have  belonged  to  the  son  of  the  Doge. 


250 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


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the  cavetto  is  about  ; to  such  an  extent  of  subtlety  did  the 
old  builders  carry  their  love  of  change. 

The  return  of  the  cavetto  in  21,  23,  and  26,  is  comparatively 
rare,  and  is  generally  a sign  of  later  date. 

The  reader  must  observe  that  the  great  sturdiness  of  the 
form  of  the  bars,  5,  9,  17,  24,  25,  is  a consequence  of  the  pecu- 
liar office  of  Venetian  traceries  in  supporting  the  mass  of  the 
building  above,  already  noticed  in  Vol.  II. ; and  indeed  the 
forms  of  the  Venetian  Gothic  are,  in  many  other  ways,  influ- 
enced by  the  difficulty  of  obtaining 
stability  on  sandy  foundations.  One 
thing  is  especially  noticeable  in  all 
their  arrangements  of  traceries ; 
namely,  the  endeavor  to  obtain 
equal  and  horizontal  pressure  along 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  building, 
not  the  divided  and  local  pressures 
of  Northern  Gothic.  This  object  is 
considerably  aided  by  the  structure 
of  the  balconies,  which  are  of  great 
service  in  knitting  the  shafts  to- 
gether, forming  complete  tie-beams 
of  marble,  as  well  as  a kind  of 
rivets,  at  their  bases.  For  instance, 
at  5,  Fig.  II.,  is  represented  the 
masonry  of  the  base  of  the  upper 
arcade  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  show- 
ing the  root  of  one  of  its  main 
shafts,  with  the  binding  balconies. 
The  solid  stones  which  form  the 
foundation  are  much  broader  than 
the  balcony  shafts,  so  that  the 
socketed  arrangement  is  not  seen  : it  is  shown  as  it  would 
appear  in  a longitudinal  section.  The  balconies  are  not  let 
into  the  circular  shafts,  but  fitted  to  their  circular  curves,  so 
as  to  grasp  them,  and  riveted  with  metal ; and  the  bars  of 
stone  which  form  the  tops  of  the  balconies  are  of  great  strength 
and  depth,  the  small  trefoiled  arches  being  cut  out  of  them  as 


Fig.  II. 


APPENDIX. 


257 


in  Fig.  III.,  so  as  hardly  to  diminish  their  binding  power.  In 
the  lighter  independent  balconies  they  are  often  cut  deeper ; 
but  in  all  cases  the  bar  of  stone  is  nearly  independent  of  the 
small  shafts  placed  beneath  it,  and  would  stand  firm  though 
these  were  removed,  as  at  a,  Fig.  XL,  supported  either  by 
the  main  shafts  of  the 
traceries,  or  by  its  own 
small  pilasters  with 
semi-shafts  at  their 
sides,  of  the  plan  d, 

Fig.  II.,  in  a continu- 
ous balcony,  and  e at 
the  angle  of  one. 

There  is  one  more  very  curious  circumstance  illustrative  of 
the  Venetian  desire  to  obtain  horizontal  pressure.  In  all  the 
Gothic  staircases  with  which  I am  acquainted,  out  of  Venice, 
in  which  vertical  shafts  are  used  to  support  an  inclined  line, 
those  shafts  are  connected  by  arches  rising  each  above  the 
other,  with  a little  bracket  above  the  capitals,  on  the  side 
where  it  is  necessary  to  raise  the  arch  ; or  else,  though  less 
gracefully,  with  a longer  curve  to  the  lowest  side  of  the  arch. 

But  the  Venetians  seem  to  have  had  a morbid  horror  of 
arches  which  were  not  on  a level . They  could  not  endure  the 
appearance  of  the  roof  of  one  arch  bearing  against  the  side  of 
another ; and  rather  than  introduce  the  idea  of  obliquity  into 
bearing  curves,  they  abandoned  the  arch  principle  altogether ; 
so  that  even  in  their  richest  Gothic  staircases,  where  trefoiled 
arches,  exquisitely  decorated,  are  used  on  the  landings,  they 
ran  the  shafts  on  the  sloping  stair  simply  into  the  bar  of  stone 
above  them,  and  used  the  excessively  ugly  and  valueless  ar- 
rangement of  Fig.  II.,  rather  than  sacrifice  the  sacred  liori- 
zontality  of  their  arch  system. 

It  will  be  noted,  in  Plate  XI.,  that  the  form  and  character  of 
the  tracery  bars  themselves  are  independent  of  the  position  or 
projection  of  the  cusps  on  their  fiat  sides.  In  this  respect, 
also,  Venetian  traceries  are  peculiar,  the  example  22  of  the 
Porta  della  Carta  being  the  only  one  in  the  plate  which  is 
subordinated  according  to  the  Northern  system.  In  every 
Vol.  III. -17 


258 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


other  case  the  form  of  the  aperture  is  determined,  either  by 
a flat  and  solid  cusp  as  in  6,  or  by  a pierced  cusp  as  in  4. 


co 


The  effect  of  the  pierced  cusp  is 
seen  in  the  uppermost  figure, 
Plate  XVIII.  Vol.  II  ; and  its 
derivation  from  the  solid  cusp 
will  be  understood,  at  once,  from 
the  woodcut  Fig.  IV.,  which  re- 
presents a series  of  the  flanking 
stones  of  any  arch  of  the  fifth 
order,  such  as/ in  Plate  III.  Vol.  I. 

The  first  on  the  left  shows  the 
condition  of  cusp  in  a perfectly 
simple  and  early  Gothic  arch,  2 
and  3 are  those  of  common  arches 
of  the  fifth  order,  4 is  the  con- 
dition in  more  studied  examples 
of  the  Gothic  advanced  guard, 
and  5 connects  them  all  with  the 
system  of  traceries.  Introducing 
the  common  archivolt  mouldings 
on  the  projecting  edge  of  2 and 
3,  we  obtain  the  bold  and  deep 
fifth  order  window*,  used  down 
to  the  close  of  the  fourteenth 
century  or  even  later,  and  always 
grand  in  its  depth  of  cusp,  and 
consequently  of  shadow ; but  the 
narrow  cusp  4 occurs  also  in  very 
early  work,  and  is  piquant  when 
set  beneath  a bold  flat  archivolt, 
as  in  Fig.  V.  opposite,  from  the 


Corte  del  Forno  at  Santa  Marina. 


The  pierced  cusp  gives  a peculiar  lightness  and  brilliancy  to 
the  window,  but  is  not  so  sublime.  In  the  richer  buildings 
the  surface  of  the  flat  and  solid  cusp  is  decorated  with  a shal- 
low trefoil  (see  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  I.),  or,  when  the  cusjd  is 
small,  with  a triangular  incision  only,  as  seen  in  figs.  7 and  8, 


APPENDIX. 


259 


Plate  XI.  The  recesses  on  the  sides  of  the  other  cusps  indi- 
cate their  single  or  double  lines  of  foliation.  The  cusp  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  has  a fillet  only  round  its  edge,  and  a ball  of 
red  marble  on  its  truncated  point  and  is  perfect  in  its  grand 
simplicity  ; but  in  general  the  cusps  of  Venice  are  far  inferior 
to  those  of  Verona  and  of  the  other  cities  of  Italy,  chiefly  be- 
cause there  was  always  some  confusion  in  the  mind  of  the  de- 
signer between  true  cusps  and  the 
mere  bending  inwards  of  the  arch  of 
the  fourth  order.  The  two  series,  4 
a to  4 e,  and  5 a to  5 e,  in  Plate  XIV. 

Vol.  II.,  are  arranged  so  as  to  show 
this  connexion,  as  well  as  the  varieties 
of  curvature  in  the  trefoiled  arches  of 
the  fourth  and  fifth  orders,  which, 
though  apparently  slight  on  so  small 
a scale,  are  of  enormous  importance  in 
distant  effect ; a house  in  which  the 
joints  of  the  cusps  project  as  much  as 
in  5 c,  being  quite  piquant  and  gro- 
tesque when  compared  with  one  in  which  the  cusps  are  subdued 
to  the  form  5 b.,  4 d and  4 e are  Veronese  forms,  wonderfully 
effective  and  spirited  ; the  latter  occurs  at  Verona  only,  but 
the  former  at  Venice  also.  5 d occurs  in  Venice,  but  is  very 
rare  ; and  5 e I found  only  once,  on  the  narrow  canal  close  to 
the  entrance  door  of  the  Hotel  Danieli.  It  was  partly  walled 
up,  but  I obtained  leave  to  take  down  the  brickwork  and  lay 
open  one  side  of  the  arch,  which  may  still  be  seen. 

The  above  particulars  are  enough  to  enable  the  reader  to 
judge  of  the  distinctness  of  evidence  which  the  details  of 
Venetian  architecture  bear  to  its  dates.  Farther  explanation 
of  the  plates  would  be  vainly  tedious  : but  the  architect  who 
uses  these  volumes  in  Venice  will  find  them  of  value,  in  en- 
abling him  instantly  to  class  the  mouldings  which  may  inter- 
est him  ; and  for  this  reason  I have  given  a larger  number  of 
examples  than  would  otherwise  have  been  sufficient  for  my 
purpose. 


Fig.  V. 


INDICES. 


I PERSONAL  INDEX. 
II.  LOCAL  INDEX. 


HI.  TOPICAL  INDEX. 
IV.  VENETIAN  INDEX. 


The  first  of  the  following  Indices  contains  the  names  of 
persons  ; the  second  those  of  places  (not  in  Venice)  alluded  to 
in  the  body  of  the  work.  The  third  Index  consists  of  references 
to  the  subjects  touched  upon.  In  the  fourth,  called  the  Vene- 
tian Index,  I have  named  every  building  of  importance  in  the 
city  of  Venice  itself,  or  near  it ; supplying,  for  the  convenience 
of  the  traveller,  short  notices  of  those  to  which  I had  no  oc- 
casion to  allude  in  the  text  of  the  wTork  ; and  making  the 
whole  as  complete  a guide  as  I could,  with  such  added  direc- 
tions as  I should  have  given  to  any  private  friend  visiting  the 
city.  As,  however,  in  many  cases,  the  opinions  I have  ex- 
pressed differ  widely  from  those  usually  received  ; and,  in 
other  instances,  subjects  which  may  be  of  much  interest  to 
the  traveller  have  not  come  within  the  scope  of  my  inquiry ; 
the  reader  had  better  take  Lazari’s  small  Guide  in  his  hand 
also,  as  he  will  find  in  it  both  the  information  I have  been  un- 
able to  furnish,  and  the  expression  of  most  of  the  received 
opinions  upon  any  subject  of  art. 

Various  inconsistencies  will  be  noticed  in  the  manner  of  in- 
dicating the  buildings,  some  being  named  in  Italian,  some  in 
English,  and  some  half  in  one,  and  half  in  the  other.  But 
these  inconsistencies  are  permitted  in  order  to  save  trouble, 
and  make  the  Index  more  practically  useful.  For  instance,  I 
believe  the  traveller  will  generally  look  for  “ Mark,”  rather 
tkan  for  “ Marco,”  when  he  wishes  to  find  the  reference  to  St. 
Mark’s  Church  ; but  I think  he  will  look  for  Rocco,  rather 


262 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


than  for  Roch,  when  he  is  seeking  for  the  account  of  the  Scuola 
di  San  Rocco.  So  also  I have  altered  the  character  in  which 
the  titles  of  the  plates  are  printed,  from  the  black  letter  in 
the  first  volume,  to  the  plain  Roman  in  the  second  and  third  ; 
finding  experimentally  that  the  former  character  was  not  easily 
legible,  and  conceiving  that  the  book  would  be  none  the  worse 
for  this  practical  illustration  of  its  own  principles,  in  a daring 
sacrifice  of  symmetry  to  convenience. 

These  alphabetical  Indices  will,  however,  be  of  little  use, 
unless  another,  and  a very  different  kind  of  Index,  be  arranged 
in  the  mind  of  the  reader  ; an  Index  explanatory  of  the  prin- 
cipal purposes  and  contents  of  the  various  parts  of  this  essay. 
It  is  difficult  to  analyze  the  nature  of  the  reluctance  with  which 
either  a writer  or  painter  takes  it  upon  him  to  explain  the 
meaning  of  his  own  work,  even  in  cases  where,  without  such 
explanation,  it  must  in  a measure  remain  always  disputable  : 
but  I am  persuaded  that  this  reluctance  is,  in  most  instances, 
carried  too  far ; and  that,  wherever  there  really  is  a serious 
purpose  in  a book  ora  picture,  the  author  does  wrong  who, 
either  in  modesty  or  vanity  (both  feelings  have  their  share  in 
producing  the  dislike  of  personal  interpretation),  trusts  en- 
tirely to  the  patience  and  intelligence  of  the  readers  or  spec- 
tators to  penetrate  into  their  significance.  At  all  events,  I 
will,  as  far  as  possible,  spare  such  trouble  with  respect  to 
these  volumes,  by  stating  here,  finally  and  clearly,  both  what 
they  intend  and  what  they  contain  ; and  this  the  rather  be- 
cause I have  lately  noticed,  with  some  surprise,  certain  re- 
viewers announcing  as  a discovery,  what  I thought  had  lain 
palpably  on  the  surface  of  the  book,  namely,  that  “ if  Mr.  Bus- 
kin be  right,  all  the  architects,  and  all  the  architectural  teach- 
ing of  the  last  three  hundred  years,  must  have  been  wrong.” 
That  is  indeed  precisely  the  fact ; and  the  very  thing  I meant 
to  say,  which  indeed  I thought  I had  said  over  and  over  again. 
I believe  the  architects  of  the  last  three  centuries  to  have  been 
wrong  ; wrong  without  exception  ; wrong  totally,  and  from 
the  foundation.  This  is  exactly  the  point  I have  been  endeav- 
oring to  prove,  from  the  beginning  of  this  work  to  the  end 
of  it.  But  as  it  seems  not  yet  to  have  been  stated  clearly 


INDICES . 


263 


enough,  I will  here  try  to  put  my  entire  theorem  into  an  um 
mistakable  form. 

The  various  nations  who  attained  eminence  in  the  arts  be- 
fore the  time  of  Christ,  each  of  them,  produced  forms  of  archi- 
tecture which  in  their  various  degrees  of  merit  were  almost 
exactly  indicative  of  the  degrees  of  intellectual  and  moral  en- 
ergy of  the  nations  which  originated  them ; and  each  reached 
its  greatest  perfection  at  the  time  when  the  true  energy  and 
prosperity  of  the  people  wdio  had  invented  it  were  at  their 
culminating  point.  Many  of  these  various  styles  of  architecture 
were  good,  considered  in  relation  to  the  times  and  races  which 
gave  birth  to  them  ; but  none  wTere  absolutely  good  or  per- 
fect, or  fitted  for  the  practice  of  all  future  time. 

The  advent  of  Christianity  for  the  first  time  rendered  pos- 
sible the  full  development  of  the  soul  of  man,  and  therefore 
the  full  development  of  the  arts  of  man. 

Christianity  gave  birth  to  a new  architecture,  not  only 
immeasurably  superior  to  all  that  had  preceded  it,  but  de- 
monstrably the  best  architecture  that  can  exist ; perfect  in 
construction  and  decoration,  and  fit  for  the  practice  of  all 
time. 

This  architecture,  commonly  called  “ Gothic/’  though  in 
conception  perfect,  like  the  theory  of  a Christian  character, 
never  reached  an  actual  perfection,  having  been  retarded  and 
corrupted  by  various  adverse  influences  ; but  it  reached  its 
highest  perfection,  hitherto  manifested,  about  the  close  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  being  then  indicative  of  a peculiar  energy 
in  the  Christian  mind  of  Europe. 

In  the  course  of  the  fifteenth  century,  owing  to  various 
causes  which  I have  endeavored  to  trace  in  the  preceding 
pages,  the  Christianity  of  Europe  was  undermined;  and  a 
Pagan  architecture  was  introduced,  in  imitation  of  that  of  the 
Greeks  and  Homans. 

The  architecture  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  themselves  was 
not  good,  but  it  was  natural ; and,  as  I said  before,  good  in 
some  respects,  and  for  a particular  time. 

But  the  imitative  architecture  introduced  first  in  the  fif- 
teenth century,  and  practised  ever  since,  was  neither  good 


264 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE , 


nor  natural.  It  was  good  in  no  respect,  and  for  no  time.  All 
the  architects  who  have  built  in  that  style  have  built  what 
was  worthless ; and  therefore  the  greater  part  of  the  archi- 
tecture which  has  been  built  for  the  last  three  hundred  years, 
and  which  we  are  now  building,  is  worthless.  We  must  give 
up  this  style  totally,  despise  it  and  forget  it,  and  build  hence- 
forward only  in  that  perfect  and  Christian  style  hitherto 
called  Gothic,  which  is  everlastingly  the  best. 

This  is  the  theorem  of  these  volumes. 

In  support  of  this  theorem,  the  first  volume  contains,  in  its 
first  chapter,  a sketch  of  the  actual  history  of  Christian  archi- 
tecture, up  to  the  period  of  the  Beformation  ; and,  in  the  sub- 
sequent chapters,  an  analysis  of  the  entire  system  of  the  laws 
of  architectural  construction  and  decoration,  deducing  from 
those  laws  positive  conclusions  as  to  the  best  forms  and  man- 
ners of  building  for  all  time. 

The  second  volume  contains,  in  its  first  five  chapters,  an  ac- 
count of  one  of  the  most  important  and  least  known  forms  of 
Christian  architecture,  as  exhibited  in  Venice,  together  with 
an  analysis  of  its  nature  in  the  fourth  chapter ; and,  which  is 
a peculiarly  important  part  of  this  section,  an  account  of  the 
power  of  color  over  the  human  mind. 

The  sixth  chapter  of  the  second  volume  contains  an  analysis 
of  the  nature  of  Gothic  architecture,  properly  so  called,  and 
shows  that  in  its  external  form  it  complies  precisely  with  the 
abstract  laws  of  structure  and  beauty,  investigated  in  the  first 
volume.  The  seventh  and  eighth  chapters  of  the  second  vol- 
ume illustrate  the  nature  of  Gothic  architecture  by  various 
Venetian  examples.  The  third  volume  investigates,  in  its  first 
chapter,  the  causes  and  manner  of  the  corruption  of  Gothic 
architecture  ; in  its  second  chapter,  defines  the  nature  of  the 
Pagan  architecture  which  superseded  it ; in  the  third  chap- 
ter, shows  the  connexion  of  that  Pagan  architecture  with  tlia 
various  characters  of  mind  which  brought  about  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Venetian  nation  ; and,  in  the  fourth  chapter, 
points  out  the  dangerous  tendencies  in  the  modern  mind 
which  the  practice  of  such  an  architecture  indicates. 

Such  is  the  intention  of  the  preceding  pages,  which  I hope 


INDICES. 


265 


will  no  more  be  doubted  or  mistaken.  As  far  as  regards  the 
manner  of  its  fulfilment,  though  I hope,  in  the  course  of  other 
inquiries,  to  add  much  to  the  elucidation  of  the  points  in  dis- 
pute, I cannot  feel  it  necessary  to  apologize  for  the  imperfect 
handling  of  a subject  which  the  labor  of  a long  life,  had  I 
been  able  to  bestow  it,  must  still  have  left  imperfectly  treated. 


I. 


PERSONAL  INDEX. 


A 

Alberti,  Duccio  clegli,  his  tomb,  iii.  76,  82. 

Alexander  III.,  his  defence  by  Venetians,  i.  21. 

Ambrose,  St.,  his  verbal  subtleties,  ii.  318. 

Angelico,  Fra,  artistical  power  of,  i.  396  ; his  influence  on 
Protestants,  ii.  107  ; his  coloring,  ii.  147. 

Aristotle,  his  evil  influence  on  the  modern  mind,  ii.  318.  * 
Averulinus,  his  book  on  Architecture,  iii.  66. 

B 

Barbaro,  monuments  of  the  family,  iii.  125. 

Barbarossa,  Emperor,  i.  21,  23. 

Baseggio,  Pietro,  iii.  199. 

Bellini-  John,  i.  24  ; his  kindness  to  Albert  Durer,  i.  377  ; 
general  power  of,  see  Venetian  Index,  under  head  “ Gio- 
vanni Grisostomo  Gentile,  his  brother,  iii.  25. 

Berti,  Bellincion,  ii.  262. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  B.,  her  poetry,  ii.  206. 

Bunsen,  Chevalier,  on  Eomanesque  Churches,  ii.  380. 

Bunyan,  John,  his  portraiture  of  constancy,  ii.  331  ; of  pa- 
tience, ii.  332  ; of  vanity,  ii.  344 ; of  sin,  iii.  147. 

C 

Calendario,  Filippo,  iii.  199. 

Canaletto,  i.  37  ; and  see  Venetian  Index,  under  head  “ Carita.” 
Canova,  i.  217  ; and  see  Venetian  Index,  under  head  “Fran.” 
Cappello,  Vincenzo,  his  tomb,  iii.  123. 

Caracci,  school  of  the,  i.  37» 


PERSONAL  INDEX. 


267 


Cary,  his  translation  of  Dante,  ii.  263. 

Cavalli,  Jacopo,  his  tomb,  iii.  84. 

Cicero,  influence  of  his  philosophy,  ii.  315,  316. 

Claude  Lorraine,  i.  37. 

Comnenus,  Manuel,  ii.  262. 

Cornaro,  Marco,  his  tomb,  iii.  81. 

Correggio,  ii.  192. 

Crabbe,  naturalism  in  his  poetry,  ii.  195. 

D 

Dandolo,  Andrea,  tomb  of,  ii.  73,  79  ; Francesco,  tomb  of,  iii. 

77  ; character  of,  iii.  78  ; Simon,  tomb  of,  iii.  81. 

Dante,  his  central  position,  ii.  338,  iii.  158  ; his  system  of 
virtue,  ii.  322  ; his  portraiture  of  sin,  iii.  147. 

Daru,  his  character  as  a historian,  iii.  214. 

Dolci,  Carlo,  ii.  107. 

Dolfino,  Giovanni,  tomb  of,  iii.  80. 

Durer,  Albert,  his  rank  as  a landscape  painter,  i.  376  ; his 
power  in  grotesque,  iii.  145. 

E 

Edwin,  King,  his  conversion,  iii.  64. 

F 

Faliero,  Bertuccio,  his  tomb,  iii.  95  ; Marino,  his  palace,  ii. 

253  ; Vitale,  miracle  in  his  time,  ii.  64. 

Fergusson,  James,  his  system  of  beauty,  i.  382. 

Foscari,  Francesco,  his  reign,  i.  18,  iii.  165  ; his  tomb,  iii.  86  ; 
his  countenance,  iii.  88. 

G 

Garbett,  answer  to  Mr.,  i.  398. 

Ghiberti,  his  sculpture,  i.  217,  iii.  15. 

Giotto,  his  system  of  the  virtues,  ii.  321,  327,  339  ; his  rank 
as  a painter,  ii.  188,  iii.  52,  174. 

Giulio  Roman o,  i.  37. 

Giustiniani,  Marco,  his  tomb,  i.  310  ; Sebastian,  ambassador 

to  England,  iii.  224. 

% 


268 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  his  piety,  iii.  65. 

Gozzoli,  Benozzo,  ii.  195. 

Gradenigo,  Pietro,  ii.  289. 

Grande,  Can,  della  Scala,  his  tomb,  i.  265  (the  cornice  g in 
Plate  XYI.  is  taken  from  it),  iii.  73. 

Guariento,  his  Paradise,  ii.  294. 

Guercino,  ii.  107. 

H 

Hamilton,  Colonel,  his  paper  on  the  Serapeum,  ii.  220. 
Hobbima,  iii.  183,  184. 

Hunt,  William,  his  painting  of  peasant  boys,  ii.  193  ; of  still 
life,  ii.  393. 

Hunt,  William  Holman,  relation  of  his  works  to  modern  and 
ancient  art,  iii.  185. 


K 

Knight,  Gaily,  his  work  on  Architecture,  i.  372. 

L 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  ii.  171,  iii.  59. 

Louis  XI.,  iii.  193. 

M 

Martin,  John,  ii.  107. 

Mastino,  Can,  della  Scala,  his  tomb,  ii.  224,  iii.  75. 

Maynard,  Miss,  her  poems,  ii.  396. 

Michael  Angelo,  ii.  136,  188,  iii.  59,  91,  100,  158. 

Millais,  John  E.,  relation  of  his  works  to  older  art,  iii.  185 ; 

aerial  perspective  in  his  “Huguenot,”  iii.  50. 

Milton,  how  inferior  to  Dante,  iii.  147. 

Mocenigo,  Tomaso,  his  character,  i.  18  ; his  speech  on  rebuild- 
ing the  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  297 ; his  tomb,  i.  40,  iii.  86. 
Morosini,  Carlo,  Count,  note  on  Daru’s  History  by,  iii.  213. 
Morosini,  Marino,  his  tomb,  iii.  95. 

Morosini,  Michael,  his  character,  iii.  213  ; his  tomb,  iii.  82. 
Murillo,  his  sensualism,  ii.  192.  # 


PERSONAL  INDEX, 


269 


N 

Napoleon,  his  genius  in  civil  administration,  i.  394. 

Niccolo  Pisano,  i.  215. 

O 

Orcagna,  his  system  of  the  virtues,  ii.  327 ; his  art,  iii.  52. 
Orseolo,  Pietro  (Doge),  iii.  121. 

Otho  the  Great,  his  vow  at  Murano,  ii.  36. 

P 

Palladio,  i.  38,  151 ; and  see  Venetian  Index,  under  head 
“ Giorgio  Maggiore.” 

Participazio,  Angelo,  founds  the  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  286. 

Pesaro,  Giovanni,  tomb  of,  iii.  94 ; Jacopo,  tomb  of,  iii.  93. 
Philippe  de  Commynes,  i.  26. 

Plato,  influence  of  his  philosophy,  ii.  315,  336  ; his  playful- 
ness, iii.  128. 

Poussin,  Nicolo  and  Gaspar,  i.  37. 

Procaccini,  Camillo,  ii.  188. 

Prout,  Samuel,  his  style,  i.  249,  iii.  22,  48,  135. 

Pugin,  Welby,  his  rank  as  an  architect,  i.  379. 

Q 

Querini,  Marco,  his  palace,  ii.  254. 

E 

Kaffaelle,  ii.  188,  iii.  59,  109,  136. 

Eeynolds,  Sir  J.,  his  painting  at  New  College,  ii.  321  ; his 
general  manner,  iii.  183. 

Eogers,  Samuel,  his  works,  ii,  195,  iii.  114. 

Eubens,  intellectual  rank  of,  i.  395  ; coarseness  of,  ii.  146. 

S 

Salvator  Eosa,  i.  37,  ii.  108,  147,  188. 

Scaligeri,  tombs  of,  at  Verona  ; see  “ Grande,”  “ MastinG,* 
“ Signorio  ; ” palace  of,  ii.  257. 

Scott,  Sir  W.,  his  feelings  of  romance,  iii.  191. 

Shakspeare,  his  “Seven  Ages,”  whence  derived,  ii.  359. 


270 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Sharpe,  Edmund,  his  works,  i.  335,  372* 

Signorio,  Can,  della  Scala,  his  tomb,  character,  i.  265,  iii.  75. 
Simplicius,  St.,  ii.  354. 

Spenser,  value  of  his  philosophy,  ii.  326,  339,  342  ; his  persons 
fications  of  the  months,  ii.  270  ; his  system  of  the  virtues, 
ii.  326 ; scheme  of  the  first  book  of  the  Eaerie  Queen,  iii. 
205. 

Steno,  Michael,  ii.  304  ; his  tomb,  ii.  295. 

Stothard  (the  painter),  his  works,  ii.  188,  195. 

Symmachus,  St.,  ii.  355. 

T 

Teniers,  David,  ii.  188. 

Tiepolo,  Jacopo  and  Lorenzo,  their  tombs,  iii.  71 ; Bajamonte, 

ii.  254. 

Tintoret,  i.  25,  ii  136  ; his  genius  and  function,  ii.  150 ; his 
Paradise,  ii.  302,  371 ; his  rank  among  the  men  of  Italy, 

iii.  158. 

Titian,  i.  25  ; his  function  and  fall,  ii.  150,  188. 

Turner,  his  rank  as  a landscape  painter,  i.  376,  ii.  188. 

U 

Uguccione,  Benedetto,  destroys  Giotto’s  fa9ade  at  Florence, 


Vendramin,  Andrea  (Doge),  his  tomb,  i.  40,  iii.  90. 

Yerocchio,  Andrea,  iii.  15,  17,  18. 

Veronese,  Paul,  artistical  rank  of,  i.  394  ; his  designs  of  balus- 
trades, ii.  247  ; and  see  in  Venetian  Index,  “ Ducal  Pal- 
ace,” “Pisani,”  “Sebastian,”  “Redentore,”  “ Accademia.51 

W 

West,  Benjamin,  ii.  107. 

Wordsworth,  his  observation  of  nature,  i.  246  (note)  ; his  play- 
fulness, iii.  128. 

Z 

Zeno,  Carlo,  i.  18,  iii.  82. 

Ziani,  Sebastian  (Doge),  builds  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  288. 


II 

LOCAL  INDEX, 


A 

Abbeville,  door  of  church  at,  ii.  224 ; parapet  at,  ii.  244. 
Alexandria,  Church  at,  i.  375. 

Alhambra,  ornamentation  of,  i.  425. 

Alps,  how  formed  for  distant  effect,  i.  244  ; how  seen  from 
Venice,  ii.  8,  33. 

Amiens,  pillars  of  Cathedral  at,  i.  110. 

Arqua,  hills  of,  how  seen  from  Venice,  ii.  8. 

Assisi,  Giotto’s  paintings  at,  ii.  321,  327. 

B 

Beauvais,  piers  of  Cathedral  at,  i.  101 ; grandeur  of  its  buttress 
structure,  i.  172. 

Bergamo,  Duomo  at,  i.  272. 

Bologna,  Palazzo  Pepoli  at,  i.  272. 

Bourges,  Cathedral  at,  i.  56,  110,  227,  268,  294 ; ii.  94,  186 ; 
house  of  Jacques  Coeur  at,  i.  338. 

C 

Chamouni,  glacier  forms  at,  i.  222. 

Como,  Broletto  of,  i.  147,  332. 

D 

Dijon,  pillars  in  Church  of  Notre  Dame  at,  i.  110 ; tombs  of 
Dukes  of  Burgundy,  iii.  70. 

E 


Edinburgh,  college  at,  i.  208. 


272 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


F 

Falaise  (St,  Gervaise  at),  piers  of,  i.  111. 

Florence,  Cathedral  of,  i.  199,  iii.  17. 

G 

Gloucester,  Cathedral  of,  i.  194. 

L 

Lombardy,  geology  of,  ii.  11. 

London,  Church  in  Margaret  Street,  Portland  Place,  iii.  195  ; 
Temple  Church,  i.  408  ; capitals  in  Belgrave  and  Grosve- 
nor  Squares,  i.  324  ; Bank  of  England,  base  of,  i.  278  ; 
wall  of,  typical  of  accounts,  i.  291 ; statue  in  King  Wil- 
liam Street,  i.  216  ; shops  in  Oxford  Street,  i.  202 ; 
Arthur  Club-house,  i.  291  ; Athenaeum  Club-house,  i.  161, 
279  ; Duke  of  York’s  Pillar,  i.  279  ; Treasury,  i.  205  ; 
Whitehall,  i.  205  ; Westminster,  fall  of  houses  at,  ii.  267  ; 
Monument,  i.  91,  279 ; Nelson  Pillar,  i.  91,  215 ; Well- 
ington Statue,  i.  256. 

Lucca,  Cathedral  of,  ii.  274 ; San  Michele  at,  i.  369. 

Lyons,  porch  of  cathedral  at,  i.  372. 

M 

Matterhorn  (Mont  Cervin),  structure  of,  i.  69  ; lines  of,  ap- 
plied to  architecture,  i.  303,  304,  325. 

Mestre,  scene  in  street  of,  i.  347. 

Milan,  St.  Ambrogio,  piers  of,  i.  110  ; capital  of,  i.  321  ; St. 

Eustachio,  tomb  of  St.  Peter  Martyr,  i.  218. 

Moulins,  brickwork  at,  i.  291. 

Murano,  general  aspect  of,  ii.  33  ; Duomo  of,  ii.  36  ; balus- 
trades of,  ii.  246  ; apse  of,  380  ; inscriptions  at,  ii.  382. 

N 

Nineveh,  style  of  its  decorations,  i.  234,  238,  240  ; iii.  159. 

O 

Orange  (South  France),  arch  at,  i.  248. 

Orleans,  Cathedral  of,  i.  103. 


LOCAL  INDEX. 


273 


P 

Padua,  Arena  chapel  at,  ii.  322  ; St.  Antonio  at,  i.  141  ; St. 

Sofia  at,  i.  321  ; Eremitani,  Church  of,  at,  i.  141. 

Paris,  Hotel  des  Invalides,  i.  214  ; Arc  de  l’Etoile,  i.  287  ; Co- 
lonne  Vendome,  i.  212. 

Pavia,  St.  Michele  at,  piers  of,  i.  110,  330  ; ornaments  of,  i. 
369. 

Pisa,  Baptistery  of,  ii.  274. 

Pistoja,  San  Pietro  at,  i.  291. 

R 

Ravenna,  situation  of,  ii.  12. 

Rouen,  Cathedral,  piers  of,  i.  Ill,  157  ; pinnacles  of,  ii.  212  ; 
windows  at,  ii.  223  ; St.  Maclou  at,  sculptures  of,  ii.  197. 

S 

Salisbury  Cathedral,  piers  of,  i.  110  ; windows  at,  ii.  223. 
Sens,  Cathedral  of,  i.  141. 

Switzerland,  cottage  architecture  of,  i.  159,  203,  iii.  134. 

Y 

Verona,  San  Fermo  at,  i.  142,  ii.  258  ; Sta.  Anastasia  at,  i. 
147  ; Duomo  of,  i.  366  ; St.  Zeno  at,  i.  367  ; balconies  at, 
ii.  247  ; archivolt  at,  i.  328  ; tombs  at,  see  in  Personal 
Index,  “ Grande,  ” “Mastino,”  “ Signorio.” 

Yevay,  architecture  of,  i.  141. 

Vienne  (South  France),  Cathedral  of,  i.  271. 

W 

Warwick,  Guy’s  tower  at,  i.  171. 

Wenlock  (Shropshire),  Abbey  of,  i.  267. 

Winchester,  Cathedral  of,  i.  194. 

Y 

York,  Minster  of,  i.  206,  307. 


Vol.  III.— 18 


III. 


TOPICAL  INDEX. 


A 

Abacus,  defined,  i.  114  ; law  of  its  proportion,  i.  117-122  ; its 
connection  with  cornices,  i.  123  ; its  various  profiles,  i. 
312-315  ; iii.  244-245. 

Acanthus,  leaf  of,  its  use  in  architecture,  i.  232  ; how  treated  at 
Torcello,  ii.  20. 

Alabaster,  use  of,  in  incrustation,  ii.  89. 

Anachronism,  necessity  of,  in  the  best  art,  ii.  198. 

Anatomy,  a disadvantageous  study  for  artists,  iii.  50. 

Angels,  use  of  their  images  in  Venetian  heraldry,  ii.  276 ; 
statues  of,  on  the  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  309. 

Anger,  how  symbolically  represented,  ii.  342. 

Angles,  decoration  of,  i.  258  ; ii.  303 ; of  Gothic  Palaces,  ii. 
238 ; of  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  305. 

Animal  character  in  northern  and  southern  climates,  ii.  156-8  ; 
in  grotesque  art,  iii.  149. 

Apertures,  analysis  of  their  structure,  i.  62  ; general  forms  of, 
i.  176. 

Apse,  forms  of,  in  southern  and  northern  churches  compared, 
i.  173  ; of  Murano,  ii.  380. 

Arabesques  of  Kaffaelle,  their  baseness,  iii.  136. 

Arabian  architecture,  i.  30,  234,  235,  425 ; ii.  137. 

Arches,  general  structure  of,  i.  128  ; moral  characters  of,  i. 
132  ; lancet,  round,  and  depressed,  i.  135  ; four-centred, 
i.  136  ; ogee,  i.  137 ; non-concentric,  i.  138,  333  ; ma- 
sonry of,  i.  138,  ii.  217  ; load  of,  i.  149 ; are  not  derived 
from  vegetation,  ii.  201. 

Architects,  modern,  their  unfortunate  position,  i.  399,  402. 


TOPICAL  INDEX. 


275 


Architecture,  general  view  of  its  divisions,  i.  59-63  ; how  to 
judge  of  it,  ii.  174  ; adaptation  of,  to  requirements  of  hu- 
man mind,  iii.  192  ; richness  of  early  domestic,  ii.  103, 
iii.  5-6  ; manner  of  its  debasement  in  general,  iii.  7. 

Archivolts,  decoration  of,  i.  327  ; general  families  of,  i.  328  ; 
of  Murano,  ii.  54  ; of  St.  Mark’s,  ii.  54,  98  ; in  London* 
ii.  100  ; Byzantine,  ii.  140 ; profiles  of,  iii.  245. 

Arts,  relative  dignity  of,  i.  389  ; how  represented  in  Venetian 
sculpture,  ii.  354  ; what  relation  exists  between  them  and 
their  materials,  ii.  393  ; art  divided  into  the  art  of  facts, 
of  design,  and  of  both,  ii.  183  ; into  purist,  naturalist, 
and  sensualist,  ii,  187  ; art  opposed  to  inspiration,  iii. 
151 ; defined,  iii.  170  ; distinguished  from  science,  iii.  38 ; 
how  to  enjoy  that  of  the  ancients,  iii.  188. 

Aspiration,  not  the  primal  motive  of  Gothic  work,  i.  155. 

Astrology,  judicial,  representation  of  its  doctrines  in  Venetian 
sculpture,  ii.  350. 

Austrian  government  in  Italy,  iii.  209. 

Avarice,  how  represented  figuratively,  ii.  343. 

B 

Backgrounds,  diapered,  iii.  24. 

Balconies,  of  Venice,  ii.  243  ; general  treatment  of,  iii.  256  ; 
of  iron,  ii.  247. 

Ballflower,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  276. 

Balustrades.  See  “ Balconies.” 

Bases,  general  account  of,  iii.  226  ; of  walls,  i.  66  ; of  piers,  i. 
83  ; of  shafts,  i.  93  ; decoration  of,  i.  277  ; faults  of  Gothic 
profiles  of,  i.  281 ; spurs  of,  i.  282  ; beauty  of,  in  St. 
Mark’s,  i.  286  ; Lornbardic,  i.  288  ; ought  not  to  be 
richly  decorated,  i.  288 ; general  effect  of,  ii.  386. 

Battlements,  i.  166  ; abuse  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  219. 

Beauty  and  ornament,  relation  of  the  terms,  i.  399. 

Bellstones  of  capitals  defined,  i.  115. 

Birds,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  233,  ii.  141. 

Bishops,  their  ancient  authority,  ii.  30. 

Body,  its  relation  to  the  soul,  i.  54,  389. 

Brackets,  division  of,  i.  165 ; ridiculous  forms  of,  i.  165. 


276 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Breadth  in  Byzantine  design,  ii.  135. 

Brickwork,  ornamental,  i.  291  ; in  general,  ii.  240,  259,  260. 
Brides  of  Venice,  legend  of  the,  iii.  114-117. 

Buttresses,  general  structure  of,  i.  169 ; flying,  i.  194 ; sup 
posed  sanctity  of,  i.  176. 

Bull,  symbolical  use  of,  in  representing  rivers,  i.  414,  417, 
420. 

Byzantine  style,  analysis  of,  ii.  78  ; ecclesiastical  fitness  of,  ii. 
100  ; centralization  in,  ii.  236  ; palaces  built  in,  ii.  120 ; 
sculptures  in,  ii.  138,  141. 

C 

Candlemas,  ancient  symbols  of,  ii.  271. 

Capitals,  general  structure  of,  i.  112  ; bells  of,  i.  115  ; just 
proportions  of,  i.  120  ; various  families  of,  i.  27,  75, 324,  ii. 
130,  iii.  231 ; are  necessary  to  shafts  in  good  architecture, 

i.  125  ; Byzantine,  ii.  132,  iii.  232  ; Lily,  of  St.  Mark’s,  ii. 
138  ; of  Solomon’s  temple,  ii.  139. 

Care,  how  symbolized,  ii.  346.  See  “ Sorrow.” 

Caryatides,  i.  297. 

Castles,  English,  entrances  of,  i.  181. 

Cathedrals,  English,  effect  of,  ii.  67. 

Ceilings,  old  Venetian,  ii.  278. 

Centralization  in  design,  ii.  236. 

Chalet  of  Switzerland,  its  character,  i.  203. 

Chamfer  defined,  i.  261 ; varieties  of,  i.  260,  425, 
Changefulness,  an  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  172. 

Charity,  how  symbolized,  ii  321,  325,  337. 

Chartreuse,  Grande,  morbid  life  in,  iii.  190. 

Chastity,  how  symbolized,  ii.  326. 

Cheerfulness,  how  symbolized,  ii.  324,  346  ; virtue  of,  ii.  324 
Cherries,  cultivation  of,  at  Venice,  ii.  360. 

Christianity,  how  mingled  with  worldliness,  iii.  110  ; how  im- 
perfectly understood,  iii.  168  ; influence  of,  in  liberating 
workmen,  i.  242,  ii.  159  ; influence  of,  on  forms,  i.  107. 
Churches,  wooden,  of  the  North,  i.  374  ; considered  as  ships, 

ii.  30  ; decoration  of,  how  far  allowable,  ii.  104. 
Civilization,  progress  of,  iii.  168  ; two-fold  danger  of,  iii.  169. 


TOPICAL  INDEX. 


277 


Classical  literature,  its  effect  on  the  modern  mind,  iii.  16. 

Climate,  its  influence  on  architecture,  i.  155,  ii.  156,  203. 

Color,  its  importance  in  early  work,  ii.  43,  44,  81,  93  ; its 
spirituality,  ii.  146,  395  ; its  relation  to  music,  iii.  185  ; 
quartering  of,  iii.  23-4  ; how  excusing  realization,  iii.  185. 

Commerce,  how  regarded  by  Venetians,  i.  20. 

Composition,  definition  of  the  term,  ii.  182. 

Constancy,  how  symbolized,  ii.  331. 

Construction,  architectural,  how  admirable,  i.  48. 

Convenience,  how  consulted  by  Gothic  architecture,  ii.  179. 

Cornices,  general  divisions  of,  i.  73,  iii.  250  ; of  walls,  i.  72  ; 
of  roofs,  i.  158 ; ornamentation  of,  i.  299  ; curvatures  of, 
i.  301  ; military,  i.  163  ; Greek,  i.  160. 

Courses  in  walls,  i.  71. 

Crockets,  their  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  339  ; their  abuse  at 
Venice,  iii.  13. 

Crosses,  Byzantine,  ii.  140. 

Crusaders,  character  of  the,  ii.  262. 

Crystals,  architectural  appliance  of,  i.  224. 

Cupid,  representation  of,  in  early  and  later  art,  ii.  340. 

Curvature,  on  what  its  beauty  depends,  i.  223,  iii.  9.. 

Cusps,  definition  of,  i.  140  ; groups  of,  i.  143  ; relation  of,  to 
vegetation,  ii.  218  ; general  treatment  of,  iii.  258  ; earli- 
est occurrence  of,  ii.  220. 


D 

Daguerreotype,  probable  results  of,  iii.  169. 

Darkness,  a character  of  early  churches,  ii.  23  ; not  an  abstract 
evil,  iii.  221. 

Death,  fear  of,  in  Renaissance  times,  iii.  68,  92-94  ; how  an- 
ciently regarded,  iii.  137-139,  156. 

Decoration,  true  nature  of,  i.  400 ; how  to  judge  of,  i.  56>  57, 
See  “ Ornament.  ” 

Demons,  nature  of,  how  illustrated  by  Milton  and  Dante,  iii 
147. 

Dentil,  Venetian,  defined,  i.  270,  272. 

Design,  definition  of  the  term,  ii.  183  ; its  relations  to  natur. 
alisrn,  ii.  184. 


278 


TEE  ST  ONES  OF  VENICE. 


Despair,  how  symbolized,  ii.  332, 

Diaper  patterns  in  brick,  i.  291  ; in  color,  iii.  24,  25. 

Discord,  how  symbolized,  ii.  331. 

Discs,  decoration  by  means  of,  i.  239,  412  ; ii.  148,  263. 

Division  of  labor,  evils  of,  ii.  165. 

Doge  of  Venice,  his  power,  i.  17,  352. 

Dogtooth  moulding  defined,  i.  266. 

Dolphins,  moral  disposition  of,  i.  229  ; use  of,  in  symbolio 
representation  of  sea,  i.  417,  418. 

Domestic  architecture,  richness  of,  in  middle  ages,  ii.  101. 

Doors,  general  structure  of,  i.  178,  180  ; smallness  of  in  Eng- 
lish cathedrals,  i.  179  ; ancient  Venetian,  ii.  276,  iii.  228. 

Doric  architecture,  i.  160,  296,  302  ; Christian  Doric,  i.  302, 
309. 

Dragon,  conquered  by  St.  Donatus,  ii.  38  ; use  of,  in  orna- 
mentation, ii.  219. 

Dreams,  how  resembled  by  the  highest  arts,  iii.  153 ; pro- 
phetic, in  relation  to  the  Grotesque,  iii.  156. 

Dress,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  212  ; early  Venetian,  ii. 
381 ; dignity  of,  iii.  190  ; changes  in  modern  dress,  iii. 
191-192. 

Duties  of  buildings,  i.  59. 

E 

Earthquake  of  1511,  ii.  241,  242. 

Eastern  races,  their  power  over  color,  ii.  148. 

Eaves,  construction  of,  i.  159. 

Ecclesiastical  architecture  in  Venice,  i.  33  ; no  architecture 
exclusively  ecclesiastical,  ii.  101-104. 

Edge  decoration,  i.  265. 

Education,  University,  i.  386 ; iii.  111-2  ; evils  of,  with  respect 
to  architectural  workmen,  ii.  109  ; how  to  be  successfully 
undertaken,  ii.  165,  iii.  215  ; modern  education  in  general, 
how  mistaken,  iii.  111-2,  215  ; system  of,  in  Plato,  ii. 
315-7  ; of  Persian  kings,  ii.  316  ; not  to  be  mistaken  fo* 
erudition,  iii.  220  ; ought  to  be  universal,  iii.  221. 

Egg  and  arrow  mouldings,  i.  308. 

Egyptian  architecture,  i.  107,  238  ; ii.  203. 


TOPICAL  INDEX . 


279 


Elgin  marbles,  ii,  171. 

Encrusted  architecture,  i.  268,  269  ; general  analysis  of,  ii.  79. 
Energy  of  Northern  Gothic,  i.  364  ; ii.  21,  203. 

English  (early)  capitals,  faults  of,  i.  117,  407  ; English  mind, 
its  mistaken  demands  of  perfection,  ii.  160. 

Envy,  how  set  forth,  ii.  344. 

Evangelists,  types  of,  how  explicable,  iii.  155. 

F 

Faerie  Queen,  Spenser’s,  value  of,  theologically,  ii.  326. 

Faith,  influence  of,  on  art,  ii.  106,  107  ; Titian’s  picture  of,  L 
25  ; how  symbolized,  ii.  335. 

Falsehood,  how  symbolized,  ii.  347. 

Fatalism,  how  expressed  in  Eastern  architecture,  ii.  205. 

Fear,  effect  of,  on  human  life,  iii.  137  ; on  Grotesque  art,  iii. 
142. 

Feudalism,  healthy  effects  of,  i.  186. 

Fig-tree,  sculpture  of,  on  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  305. 

Fillet,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  264. 

Finials,  their  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  339  ; a sign  of  decline 
in  Venetian  architecture,  iii.  13. 

Finish  in  workmanship,  when  to  be  required,  ii.  166  ; dangers 
of,  iii.  170,  ii.  163. 

Fir,  spruce,  influence  of,  on  architecture,  i.  156. 

Fire,  forms  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  228. 

Fish,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  229. 

Flamboyant  Gothic,  i.  274,  ii.  224. 

Flattery,  common  in  Eenaissance  times,  iii.  66-7. 

Flowers,  representation  of,  how  desirable,  i.  231 ; how  repre- 
sented in  mosaic,  iii.  179. 

Fluting  of  columns,  a mistake,  i.  297. 

Foils,  definition  of,  ii.  221. 

Foliage,  how  carved  in  declining  periods,  iii.  12,  20.  SeG 
“ Vegetation.” 

Foliation  defined,  ii.  218  ; essential  to  Gothic  architecture,  ii 
221. 

Folly,  how  symbolized,  ii.  322,  347. 

Form  of  Gothic,  defined,  ii.  208. 


280 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Fortitude,  how  symbolized,  ii.  335. 

Fountains,  symbolic  representations  of,  i.  423. 

French  architecture,  compared  with  Italian,  ii.  226. 

Frivolity,  how  exhibited  in  Grotesque  art,  iii.  145. 

Fruit,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  233. 

G 

Gable,  general  structure  of,  i.  130  ; essential  to  Gothic,  ii 
217,  219. 

Gardens,  Italian,  iii.  136. 

Generalization,  abuses  of,  iii.  176. 

Geology  of  Lombardy,  ii.  11. 

Glass,  its  capacities  in  architecture,  i.  404  ; manufacture  of,  ii. 
166  ; true  principles  of  working  in,  ii.  168,  393-396. 

Gluttony,  how  symbolized,  ii.  341. 

Goldsmiths’  work,  a high  form  of  art,  ii.  167. 

Gondola,  management  of,  ii.  373. 

Gothic  architecture,  analysis  of,  ii.  152  ; not  derived  from 
vegetable  structure,  i.  127  ; convenience  of,  ii.  178-9  ; di- 
visions of,  ii.  215  ; surface  and  linear,  ii.  225  ; Italian 
and  French,  ii.  226  ; flamboyant,  i.  274,  ii.  224  ; perpen- 
dicular, i.  192,  ii.  223,  227  ; early  English,  i.  116  ; how 
to  judge  of  it,  ii.  227  ; how  fitted  for  domestic  purposes, 
ii.  267,  iii.  194  ; how  first  corrupted,  iii.  7 ; how  to  be  at 
present  built,  iii.  195  ; early  Venetian,  ii.  247  ; ecclesias- 
tical Venetian,  i.  35  ; central  Venetian,  ii.  231  ; how 
adorned  by  color  in  Venice,  iii.  26. 

Government  of  Venice,  i.  16,  ii.  363. 

Grammar,  results  of  too  great  study  of  it,  iii.  58,  107. 

Greek  architecture,  general  character  of,  i.  238,  ii.  214,  iii.  159. 

Grief.  See  “ Sorrow.” 

Griffins,  Lombardic,  i.  288,  381. 

Grotesque,  analysis  of,  iii.  132  ; in  changes  of  form,  i.  311  ; in 
Venetian  painting,  iii.  162  : symbolical,  iii.  154  ; its  char- 
acter in  Renaissance  work,  iii.  113,  122,  136,  144. 

Gutters  of  roofs,  i.  159. 


TOPICAL  INDEX. 


281 


H 

Heathenism,  typified  in  ornament,  i.  311.  See  “ Paganism.” 
Heaven  and  Hell,  proofs  of  their  existence  in  natural  phe- 
nomena, iii.  139. 

History,  how  to  be  written  and  read,  iii.  225. 

Honesty,  how  symbolized,  ii.  347. 

Hope,  how  symbolized,  ii.  339. 

Horseshoe  arches,  i.  135,  ii.  249. 

Humanity,  spiritual  nature  of,  i.  54  ; divisions  of,  with  respect 
to  art,  i.  389. 

Humility,  how  symbolized,  ii.  337. 

I 

Idleness,  how  symbolized,  ii.  343. 

Idolatry,  proper  sense  of  the  term,  ii.  387  ; is  no  encourager 
of  art,  ii.  111-112.  See  “ Popery.” 

Imagination,  its  relation  to  art,  iii.  181. 

Imitation  of  precious  stones,  &c.,  how  reprehensible,  iii.  30,  33. 
Imposts,  continuous,  i.  126. 

Infidelity,  how  symbolized,  ii.  333  ; an  element  of  the  Renais- 
sance spirit,  iii.  102. 

Injustice,  how  symbolized,  ii.  348. 

Inlaid  ornamentation,  i.  362  ; perfection  of,  in  early  Renais- 
sance, iii.  29. 

Inscriptions  at  Murano,  ii.  52,  58  ; use  of,  in  early  times,  ii, 

114. 

Insects,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  229. 

Inspiration,  how  opposed  to  art,  iii.  151,  171. 

Instinct,  its  dignity,  iii.  171. 

Intellect,  how  variable  in  dignity,  iii.  172-173. 

Involution,  delightfulness  of,  in  ornament,  ii.  138. 

Iron,  its  use  in  architecture,  i.  186,  404. 

Italians,  modern  character  of,  iii.  210. 

Italy,  how  ravaged  by  recent  war,  iii.  211. 

J 

Jambs,  Gothic,  iii.  228. 

Jesting,  evils  of,  iii.  130. 


282 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Jesuits,  their  restricted  power  in  Venice,  i.  358. 

Jewels,  their  cutting,  a bad  employment,  ii.  167. 

Judgments,  instinctive,  i.  394. 

Job,  book  of,  its  purpose,  iii.  57. 

K 

Keystones,  how  mismanaged  in  Renaissance  work.  See  Vene* 
tian  Index,  under  head  “ Libreria.” 

Knowledge,  its  evil  consequences,  iii.  43  ; how  to  be  received, 
iii.  52-3,  &c.  See  “ Education.” 

L 

Labor,  manual,  ornamental  value  of,  i.  402  ; evils  of  its  divi- 
sion, ii.  165  ; is  not  a degradation,  ii.  169. 

Labyrinth,  in  Venetian  streets,  its  clue,  ii.  253. 

Lagoons,  Venetian,  nature  of,  ii.  12-15. 

Landscape,  lower  schools  of,  i.  37  ; Venetian,  ii.  151  ; modern 
love  of,  ii.  175,  iii.  123. 

Laws  of  right  in  architecture,  i.  46  ; laws  in  general,  how  per- 
missibly violated,  i.  253,  ii.  210  ; their  position  with  re- 
spect to  art,  iii.  98  ; and  to  religion,  iii.  205. 

Leaves,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  231  (see  “ Vegetation  ”) ; 
proportion  of,  ii.  129. 

Liberality,  how  symbolized,  ii.  331. 

Life  in  Byzantine  architecture,  ii.  135. 

Lilies,  beautiful  proportions  of,  ii.  129  ; used  for  parapet  orna- 
ments, ii.  241  ; lily  capitals,  ii.  138. 

Limitation  of  ornament,  i.  253. 

Lines,  abstract  use  of,  in  ornament,  i.  221. 

Lintel,  its  structure,  i.  130,  132. 

Lion,  on  piazzetta  shafts,  iii.  240. 

Load,  of  arches,  i.  138. 

Logic,  a contemptible  science,  iii.  107. 

Lombardic  architecture,  i.  31. 

Lotus  leaf,  its  use  in  architecture,  i.  232. 

Love  of  God,  its  power  over  human  life,  iii.  137. 

Lusts,  their  power  over  human  nature,  how  symbolized  by 
Spenser,  ii.  326. 


TOPICAL  INDEX. 


283 


Luxury,  how  symbolized,  ii.  340  ; how  traceable  in  ornament, 
iii.  8 ; of  Renaissance  schools,  iii.  63-64. 

Madonna,  Byzantine  representations  of,  ii.  57. 

Magnitude,  vulgar  admiration  of,  iii.  67. 

Malmsey,  use  of,  in  Feast  of  the  Maries,  iii.  118. 

Marble,  its  uses,  iii.  30-31. 

Maries,  Feast  of  the,  iii.  118. 

Mariolatry,  ancient  and  modern,  ii.  59. 

Marriages  of  Venetians,  iii.  117. 

Masonry,  Mont-Cenisian,  i.  138  ; of  walls,  i.  71  ; of  arches,  i. 
138. 

Materials,  invention  of  new,  how  injurious  to  art,  iii.  46. . 

Misery,  how  symbolized,  ii.  345. 

Modesty,  how  symbolized,  ii.  334. 

Monotony,  its  place  in  art,  ii.  176. 

Months,  personifications  of,  in  ancient  art,  ii.  270. 

Moroseness,  its  guilt,  iii.  131. 

Mosaics,  at  Torcello,  ii.  23,  24  ; at  St.  Mark’s,  ii.  73,  114  ; early 
character  of,  ii.  113,  iii.  174,  177. 

Music,  its  relation  to  color,  iii.  185. 

Mythology  of  Venetian  painters,  ii.  151  ; ancient,  how  inju- 
rious to  the  Christian  mind,  iii.  109-110. 

N 

Natural  history,  how  necessary  a study,  iii.  57. 

Naturalism,  general  analysis  of  it  with  respect  to  art,  ii.  181- 
196  ; its  advance  in  Gothic  art,  iii.  11  ; not  to  be  found  in 
the  encrusted  style,  ii.  92  ; its  presence  in  the  noble  Gro- 
tesque, iii.  144. 

Nature  (in  the  sense  of  material  universe)  not  improvable  by 
art,  i.  343  ; its  relation  to  architecture,  i.  344. 

Niches,  use  of,  in  Northern  Gothic,  i.  275  ; in  Venetian,  ii, 
239  ; in  French  and  Veronese,  ii.  227. 

Norman,  hatchet-work,  i.  293  ; zigzag,  i.  332. 

Novelty,  its  necessity  to  the  human  mind,  ii.  177. 


284 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


o 

Oak-tree,  how  represented  in  symbolical  art,  iii.  185. 

Obedience,  how  symbolized,  ii.  333. 

Oligarchical  government,  its  effect  on  the  Venetians,  i.  19. 

Olive-tree,  neglect  of,  by  artists,  iii.  175  ; general  expression 
of,  iii.  176,  177  ; representations  of,  in  mosaic,  iii.  178. 

Order,  uses  and  disadvantages  of,  ii.  173. 

Orders,  Doric  and  Corinthian,  i.  27  ; ridiculous  divisions  of,  i. 
160,  363,  ii.  174,  248,  iii.  101. 

Ornament,  material  of,  i.  211  ; the  best,  expresses  man’s  de- 
light in  God’s  work,  not  in  his  own,  i.  211,  219  ; gen- 
eral treatment  of,  i.  235  ; is  necessarily  imperfect,  i.  236, 
239  ; divided  into  servile,  subordinate,  and  insubordinate, 
i.  241,  ii.  159  ; distant  effect  of,  i.  247 ; arborescent,  i. 
250  ; restrained  within  limits,  i.  253  ; cannot  be  over- 
charged if  good,  i.  401. 

Oxford,  system  of  education  at,  i.  386. 

P 

Paganism,  revival  of  its  power  in  modern  times,  iii.  107,  109, 
123. 

Painters,  their  power  of  perception,  iii.  40  ; influence  of  society 
on,  iii.  44  ; wrhat  they  should  know,  iii.  44  ; what  is  their 
business,  iii.  187. 

Palace,  the  Crystal,  merits  of,  i.  407. 

Palaces,  Byzantine,  ii.  120,  390  ; Gothic,  ii.  230. 

Papacy.  See  “Popery.” 

Parapets,  i.  165,  ii.  239. 

Parthenon,  curves  of,  ii.  129. 

Patience,  how  symbolized,  ii.  332. 

Pavements,  ii.  56. 

Peacocks,  sculpture  of,  i.  240. 

Pedestals  of  shafts,  i.  91 ; and  see  Venetian  Index,  under  head 
“ Giorgio  Maggiore.” 

Perception  opposed  to  knowledge,  iii.  40. 

Perfection,  inordinate  desire  of,  destructive  of  ait,  i.  236,  ii 
135,  159,  167-171. 

Perpendicular  style,  i.  192,  251,  ii.  223,  227. 


TOPICAL  INDEX . 


285 


Personification,  evils  of,  ii.  320. 

Perspective,  aerial,  ridiculous  exaggerations  of,  iii.  48-49  ; an- 
cient pride  in,  iii.  60  ; absence  of,  in  many  great  works, 
see  in  Venetian  Index  the  notice  cf  Tintoret’s  picture  of 
the  Pool  of  Bethesda,  under  head  “ Rocco.” 

Phariseeism  and  Liberalism,  how  opposed,  iii.  98-99. 

Philology,  a base  science,  iii.  57. 

Piazzetta  at  Venice,  plan  of,  ii.  281  ; shafts  of,  ii.  233. 

Pictures,  judgment  of,  how  formed,  ii.  369  ; neglect  of,  in 
Venice,  ii.  370  ; howT  far  an  aid  to  religion,  ii.  106-112. 

Picturesque,  definition  of  term,  iii.  134. 

Piers,  general  structure  of,  i.  80,  105,  124. 

Pilgrim’s  Progress.  See  “ Bunyan.” 

Pine  of  Italy,  its  effect  on  architecture,  i.  156  ; of  Alps,  effect 
in  distance,  i.  245.  See  “ Fir.” 

Pinnacles  are  of  little  practical  service,  i.  173 ; their  effect  on 
common  roofs,  i.  339. 

Play,  its  relation  to  Grotesque  art,  iii.  126-7. 

Pleasure,  its  kinds  and  true  uses,  iii.  189. 

Popery,  how  degraded  in  contest  with  Protestantism,  i.  48, 
iii.  105  ; its  influence  on  art,  i.  36,  47,  48,  381,  428,  ii.  57- 
60,  typified  in  ornament,  i.  311  ; power  of  Pope  in  Venice, 
i.  362  ; arts  used  in  support  of  Popery,  ii.  76-7. 

Porches,  i.  196. 

Portraiture,  power  of,  in  Venice,  iii.  164. 

Posture-making  in  Renaissance  art,  iii.  91. 

Prayers,  ancient  and  modern,  difference  between,  ii.  314,  389. 

Pre-Raphaelitism,  iii.  92  ; present  position  of,  iii.  168, 174,  187. 

Pride,  how  symbolized,  ii.  343,  iii.  207  ; of  knowledge,  iii.  38  ; 
of  state,  iii.  62  ; of  system,  iii.  97. 

Priests,  restricted  power  of,  in  Venice,  i.  358. 

Proportions,  subtlety  of,  in  early  work,  ii.  42,  122,  128. 

Protestantism,  its  influence  on  art,  i.  36  ; typified  in  ornament, 
i.  310  ; influence  of,  on  prosperity  of  nations,  i.  361  ; ex- 
penditure in  favor  of,  i.  430  ; is  incapable  of  judging  of 
art,  ii.  106-7  ; how’  expressed  in  art,  ii.  205  ; its  errors  in 
opposing  Romanism,  iii.  104,  105,  106  ; its  shame  of  re- 
ligious confession,  ii.  277. 


286 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Prudence,  how  symbolized,  ii.  339. 

Pulpits,  proper  structure  of,  ii.  27,  379. 

Purism  in  art,  its  nature  and  definition,  ii.  189. 

Purity,  its  influence  on  color,  iii.  24. 

Q 

Quadrupeds,  use  of  in  ornamentation,  i.  233. 

Quantity  of  ornament,  its  regulation,  i.  400. 

R 

Rationalism,  its  influence  on  art,  i.  37. 

Realization,  how  far  allowable  in  noble  art,  iii.  182,  186. 

Recesses,  decoration  of,  i.  274. 

Recumbent  statues,  iii.  73. 

Redundance,  an  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  206. 

Religion,  its  influence  on  Venetian  policy,  i.  20  ; how  far  aided 
by  pictorial  art,  ii.  106-113  ; contempt  of,  in  Renaissance 
times,  iii.  122. 

Renaissance  architecture,  nature  of,  iii.  36 ; early,  iii.  5 ; 
Byzantine,  iii.  19  ; Roman,  iii.  35  ; Grotesque,  iii.  113 ; 
inconsistencies  of,  iii.  45,  etc. 

Reptiles,  how  used  in  ornamentation,  i.  229. 

Resistance,  line  of,  in  arches,  i.  132. 

Restraint,  ornamental,  value  of,  i.  254. 

Reverence,  how  ennobling  to  humanity,  ii.  164. 

Rhetoric,  a base  study,  iii.  107. 

Rigidity,  an  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  202. 

Rivers,  symbolical  representation  of,  i.  415,  416. 

Rocks,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  224 ; organization  of,  i. 
245  ; curvatures  of,  i.  69,  224. 

Roll-mouldings,  decoration  of,  i.  273. 

Romance,  modern  errors  of,  ii.  10  ; how  connected  with  dress, 
iii.  191-192. 

Romanesque  style,  i.  29,  33,  150,  ii.  214.  See  “ Byzantine,” 
and  “ Renaissance.  ” 

Romanism.  See  “ Popery.  ” 

Roofs,  analysis  of,  i.  61,  152,  ii.  211,  215  ; domed,  i.  153 ; Swiss, 
i.  153,  338  ; steepness  of,  conducive  to  Gothic  character, 
i 155,  ii.  209  ; decoration  of,  i.  336. 


TOPICAL  INDEX. 


287 


Rustication,  is  ugly  and  foolish,  i.  75  ; natural  objects  of 
which  it  produces  a resemblance,  i.  292. 

S 

Salvia,  its  leaf  applied  to  architecture,  i.  282,  300. 

Sarcophagi,  Renaissance  treatment  of,  iii.  92  ; ancient,  iii.  71 
94-95. 

Satellitic  shafts,  i.  103. 

Satire  in  Grotesque  art,  iii.  126,  146. 

Savageness,  the  first  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  155  ; in  Grotesque 
art,  iii.  160. 

Science  opposed  to  art,  iii.  39. 

Sculpture,  proper  treatment  of,  i.  216,  &c. 

Sea;  symbolical  representations  of,  i.  344,  417 ; natural  waves 
of,  i.  343. 

Sensualism  in  art,  its  nature  and  definition,  ii.  189  ; how  re- 
deemed by  color,  ii.  146. 

Serapeum  at  Memphis,  cusps  of,  ii.  220. 

Sermons,  proper  manner  of  regarding  them,  ii.  '27  ; mode  of 
their  delivery  in  Scotch  church,  ii.  379. 

Serrar  del  Consiglio,  ii.  289. 

Shafts,  analysis  of,  i.  92  ; vaulting  shafts,  i.  150  ; ornamenta- 
tion of,  i.  295 ; twisted,  by  what  laws  regulated,  i.  298 ; 
strength  of,  i.  397  ; laws  by  which  they  are  regulated  in 
encrusted  style,  ii.  85. 

Shields,  use  of,  on  tombs,  ii.  224,  iii.  89. 

Shipping,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  215. 

Shops  in  Venice,  ii.  69. 

Sight,  how  opposed  to  thought,  iii.  41-42. 

Simplicity  of  life  in  thirteenth  century,  ii.  262. 

Sin,  how  symbolized  in  Grotesque  art,  iii.  141-142. 

Slavery  of  Greeks  and  Egyptians,  ii.  159 ; of  English  work- 
men, ii.  163-164. 

Society,  unhealthy  state  of,  in  modern  times,  ii.  164. 

Sorrow,  how  sinful,  ii.  324 ; how  symbolized,  ii.  345-346. 

Soul,  its  development  in  art,  iii.  173,  187-188  ; its  connection 
with  the  body,  i.  54,  389. 

Spandrils,  structure  of,  i.  151 ; decoration  of,  i.  293* 


288 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


Spirals,  architectural  value  of,  i.  222,  ii.  22. 

Spurs  of  bases,  i.  88. 

Staircases,  i.  209  ; of  Gothic  palaces,  ii.  278. 

Stucco,  when  admissible,  iii.  24. 

Subordination  of  ornament,  i.  239. 

Superimposition  of  buildings,  i.  200  ; ii.  385. 

Surface-Gothic,  explanation  of  term,  ii.  225-227. 

Symbolism,  i.  412  ; how  opposed  to  personification,  ii.  321. 
System,  pride  of,  how  hurtful,  iii.  97,  101. 

T 

Temperance,  how  symbolized,  ii.  336  ; temperance  in  coloi 
and  curvature,  iii.  8,  24. 

Theology,  opposed  to  religion,  iii.  216 ; of  Spenser,  iii.  205. 
Thirteenth  century,  its  high  position  with  respect  to  art,  ii 
262. 

Thought,  opposed  to  sight,  iii.  41-42. 

Tombs  at  Verona,  i.  147,  408  ; at  Venice,  ii.  72  ; early  Chris- 
tian, iii.  70  ; Gothic,  iii.  73  ; Renaissance  treatment  of,  iii. 
86. 

Towers,  proper  character  of,  i.  204 ; of  St.  Mark’s,  i.  207. 
Traceries,  structure  of,  i.  186,  187 ; flamboyant,  i.  191  ; 
stump,  i.  191  ; English  perpendicular,  i.  192,  ii.  222  ; gen- 
eral character  of,  ii.  219  ; strength  of,  in  Venetian  Gothic, 

ii.  234,  iii.  255-6  ; general  forms  of  tracery  bars,  iii.  253. 
Treason,  how  detested  by  Dante,  ii.  325. 

Trees,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  230. 

Trefoil,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  ii.  47. 

Triangles,  used  for  ornaments  at  Murano,  ii.  48. 

Tribune  at  Torcello,  ii.  30. 

Triglyphs,  ugliness  of,  i.  55. 

Trunkmakers,  their  share  in  recovery  of  Brides  of  Venice,  iii. 
118-119. 

Truth,  relation  of,  to  religion,  in  Spenser's  “ Faerie  Queen/ 

iii.  205-206 ; typified  by  stones,  iii.  34-35. 

Tympanum,  decoration  of,  i.  294. 

U 

Unity  of  Venetian  nobility,  i.  23. 


TOPICAL  INDEX. 


289 


Y 

Vainglory,  speedy  punishment  of,  iii.  123. 

Vanity,  how  symbolized,  ii.  344. 

Variety  in  ornamental  design,  importance  of,  ii.  47,  135,  143, 
172. 

Vegetation,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  231  ; peculiar  meaning 
of,  in  Gothic,  ii.  199  ; how  connected  with  cusps,  ii.  219. 

Veil  (wall  veil),  construction  of,  i.  68  ; decoration  of,  i.  289. 

Vine,  Lombardic  sculpture  of,  i.  368  ; at  Torcello,  ii.  21  ; use 
of,  in  ornamentation,  ii.  142  ; in  symbolism,  ii.  145  ; sculpt- 
ure of,  on  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  305. 

Virtues,  how  symbolized  in  sepulchral  monuments,  iii.  84,  87- 
88 ; systems  of,  in  Pagan  and  Christian  philosophy,  iL 
310  ; cardinal,  ii.  315-320  ; of  architecture,  i.  48,  56. 

Voussoirs  defined,  i.  132  ; contest  between  them  and  archi- 
traves, i.  329. 

W 

Walls,  general  analysis  of  their  structure,  i.  60  ; bases  of,  i. 
63,  64  ; cornices  of,  i.  72  ; rustication  of,  i.  71,  331  ; dec- 
oration of,  i.  289  ; courses  in,  i.  71,  290. 

Water,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  226  ; ancient  representa- 
tions of,  i.  412. 

Weaving,  importance  of  associations  connected  with,  ii.  137. 

Wells,  old  Venetian,  ii.  278. 

Windows,  general  forms  of,  i.  181  ; Arabian,  i.  183,  ii.  137  ; 
square-headed,  ii.  211,  268  ; development  of,  in  Venice, 
ii.  235  ; orders  of,  in  Venice,  ii.  248  ; advisable  form  of, 
in  modern  buildings,  ii.  268. 

Winds,  how  symbolized  at  Venice,  ii.  365. 

Wooden  architecture,  i.  374. 

Womanhood,  virtues  of,  as  given  by  Spenser,  ii.  324. 

Z 

Zigzag,  Norman,  i.  332. 

Vol.  III.— 19 


IV. 

VENETIAN  INDEX. 


I have  endeavored  to  make  the  following  index  as  useful  as 
possible  to  the  traveller,  by  indicating  only  the  objects  which 
are  really  worth  his  study.  A traveller’s  interest,  stimulated 
as  it  is  into  strange  vigor  by  the  freshness  of  every  impression, 
and  deepened  by  the  sacredness  of  the  charm  of  association 
which  long  familiarity  with  any  scene  too  fatally  wears  away,* 
is  too  precious  a thing  to  be  heedlessly  wasted  ; and  as  it  is 
physically  impossible  to  see  and  to  understand  more  than  a 
certain  quantity  of  art  in  a given  time,  the  attention  bestowed 
on  second-rate  works,  in  such  a city  as  Venice,  is  not  merely 
lost,  but  actually  harmful, — deadening  the  interest  and  con- 
fusing the  memory  with  respect  to  those  which  it  is  a duty  to 
enj°Jj  and  a disgrace  to  forget.  The  reader  need  not  fear  be- 
ing misled  by  any  omissions  ; for  I have  conscientiously  pointed 
out  every  characteristic  example,  even  of  the  styles  which  I dis- 
like, and  have  referred  to  Lazari  in  all  instances  in  which  my 
own  information  failed  : but  if  he  is  in  any  wise  willing  to 

* 1 1 Am  I in  Italy  ? Is  this  the  Mincius  ? 

Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 

And  shall  I sup  where  Juliet  ot  the  Masque 
Saw  her  loved  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by  him  ? 

Such  questions  hourly  do  I ask  myself  ; 

And  not  a stone  in  a crossway  inscribed 
* To  Mantua/  1 To  Ferrara,’  but  excites 
Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation.” 

Alas,  after  a few  short  months,  spent  even  in  the  scenes  dearest  to  his4 
tory,  we  can  feel  thus  no  more. 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


291 


trust  me,  I should  recommend  him  to  devote  his  principal  at- 
tention, if  he  is  fond  of  paintings,  to  the  works  of  Tintoret, 
Paul  Veronese,  and  John  Bellini  ; not  of  course  neglecting 
Titian,  yet  remembering  that  Titian  can  be  well  and  thoroughly 
studied  in  almost  any  great  European  gallery,  while  Tintoret 
and  Bellini  can  be  judged  of  only  in  Venice,  and  Paul  Veron- 
ese, though  gloriously  represented  by  the  two  great  pictures 
in  the  Louvre,  and  many  others  throughout  Europe,  is  yet  not 
to  be  fully  estimated  until  he  is  seen  at  play  among  the  fan- 
tastic chequers  of  the  Venetian  ceilings. 

I have  supplied  somewhat  copious  notices  of  the  pictures  of 
Tintoret,  because  they  are  much  injured,  difficult  to  read,  and 
entirely  neglected  by  other  writers  on  art.  I cannot  express 
the  astonishment  and  indignation  I felt  on  finding,  in  Kugler’s 
handbook,  a paltry  cenacolo,  painted  probably  in  a couple  of 
hours  for  a couple  of  zecchins,  for  the  monks  of  St.  Trovaso, 
quoted  as  characteristic  of  this  master  ; just  as  foolish  readers 
quote  separate  stanzas  of  Peter  Bell  or  the  Idiot  Boy,  as  char- 
acteristic of  Wordsworth.  Finally,  the  reader  is  requested 
to  observe,  that  the  dates  assigned  to  the  various  buildings 
named  in  the  following  index,  are  almost  without  exception 
conjectural ; that  is  to  say,  founded  exclusively  on  the  internal 
evidence  of  which  a portion  has  been  given  in  the  Final  Ap- 
pendix. It  is  likely,  therefore,  that  here  and  there,  in  par- 
ticular instances,  further  inquiry  may  prove  me  to  have  been 
deceived  ; but  such  occasional  errors  are  not  of  the  smallest 
importance  with  respect  to  the  general  conclusions  of  the  pre- 
ceding pages,  which  will  be  found  to  rest  on  too  broad  a basis 
to  be  disturbed. 


A 

Accademia  delle  Belle  Arti.  Notice  above  the  door  the  two 
bas-reliefs  of  St.  Leonard  and  St.  Christopher,  chiefly  re- 
markable for  their  rude  cutting  at  so  late  a date  as  1377  ; 
but  the  niches  under  which  they  stand  are  unusual  in  their 
bent  gables,  and  in  little  crosses  within  circles  which  fill 
their  cusps.  The  traveller  is  generally  too  much  struck  by 


292 


TIIE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Titian’s  great  picture  of  the  44  Assumption,”  to  be  able  to 
pay  proper  attention  to  the  other  works  in  this  gallery.  Let 
him,  however,  ask  himself  candidly,  how  much  of  his  admi- 
ration is  dependent  merely  upon  the  picture  being  larger  than 
any  other  in  the  room,  and  having  bright  masses  of  red  and 
blue  in  it : let  him  be  assured  that  the  picture  is  in  reality 
not  one  whit  the  better  for  being  either  large,  or  gaudy  in 
color  ; and  he  will  then  be  better  disposed  to  give  the  pains 
necessary  to  discover  the  merit  of  the  more  profound  and 
solemn  works  of  Bellini  and  Tintoret.  One  of  the  most 
wonderful  works  in  the  whole  gallery  is  Tintoret’s  4 'Death 
of  Abel,”  on  the  left  of  the  44  Assumption  ; ” the  44  Adam  and 
Eve,”  on  the  right  of  it,  is  hardly  inferior  ; and  both  are  more 
characteristic  examples  of  the  master,  and  in  many  respects 
better  pictures,  than  the  much  vaunted  44  Miracle  of  St. 
Mark.”  All  the  works  of  Bellini  in  this  room  are  of  great 
beauty  and  interest.  In  the  great  room,  that  which  contains 
Titian’s  44  Presentation  of  the  Virgin,”  the  traveller  should 
examine  carefully  all  the  pictures  by  Vittor  Carpaccio  and 
Gentile  Bellini,  which  represent  scenes  in  ancient  Ven- 
ice ; they  are  full  of  interesting  architecture  and  costume. 
Marco  Basaiti  s 44  Agony  in  the  Garden  ” is  a lovely  example 
of  the  religious  school.  The  Tintorets  in  this  room  are  all 
second  rate,  but  most  of  the  Veronese  are  good,  and  the 
large  ones  are  magnificent. 

Aliga.  See  Giorgio. 

Alvise,  Church  of  St.  I have  never  been  in  this  church,  but 
Lazari  dates  its  interior,  with  decision,  as  of  the  year  1388. 
and  it  may  be  worth  a glance,  if  the  traveller  has  time. 

Andrea,  Church  of  St.  Well  worth  visiting  for  the  sake  of 
the  peculiarly  sweet  and  melancholy  effect  of  its  little  grass- 
grown  campo,  opening  to  the  lagoon  and  the  Alps.  The 
sculpture  over  the  door,  44  St.  Peter  walking  on  the  Water,” 
is  a quaint  piece  of  Renaissance  work.  Note  the  distant 
rocky  landscape,  and  the  oar  of  the  existing  gondola  floating 
by  St.  Andrew’s  boat.  The  church  is  of  the  later  Gothic 
period,  much  defaced,  but  still  picturesque.  The  lateral 
windows  are  bluntly  trefoiled,  and  good  of  their  time. 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


293 

Angeli,  Church  Delgli,  at  Murano.  The  sculpture  of  the 
“ Annunciation ” over  the  entrance-gate  is  graceful.  In  ex- 
ploring Murano,  it  is  worth  while  to  row  up  the  great  canal 
thus  far  for  the  sake  of  the  opening  to  the  lagoon. 

Antonino,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Apollinare,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Apostoli,  Church  of  the.  The  exterior  is  nothing.  There 
is  said  to  be  a picture  by  Veronese  in  the  interior,  “ The 
Fall  of  the  Manna.”  I have  not  seen  it ; but,  if  it  be  of 
importance,  the  traveller  should  compare  it  carefully  with 
Tintoret’s,  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  and  San  Giorgio 
Maggiore. 

Apostoli,  Palace  at,  II.  252,  on  the  the  Grand  Canal,  near  the 
Rialto,  opposite  the  fruit-market.  A most  important  transi- 
tional palace.  Its  sculpture  in  the  first  story  is  peculiarly 
rich  and  curious  ; I think  Venetian,  in  imitation  of  Byzan- 
tine. The  sea  story  and  first  floor  are  of  the  first  half  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  the  rest  modern.  Observe  that  only 
one  wing  of  the  sea  story  is  left,  the  other  half  having  been 
modernized.  The  traveller  should  land  to  look  at  the  capi- 
tal drawn  in  Plate  IL  of  Vol.  III.  fig.  7. 

Arsenal.  Its  gateway  is  a curiously  picturesque  example  of 
Renaissance  workmanship,  admirably  sharp  and  expressive 
in  its  ornamental  sculpture  ; it  is  in  many  parts  like  some 
of  the  best  Byzantine  work.  The  Greek  lions  in  front  of  it 
appear  to  me  to  deserve  more  praise  than  they  have  received ; 
though  they  are  awkwardly  balanced  between  conventional 
and  imitative  representation,  having  neither  the  severity 
proper  to  the  one,  nor  the  veracity  necessary  for  the  other. 

B 

Badoer,  Palazzo,  in  the  Campo  San  Giovanni  in  Bragola.  A 
magnificent  example  of  the  fourteenth  century  Gothic,  circa 
1310-1320,  anterior  to  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  showing  beau- 
tiful ranges  of  the  fifth  order  window,  with  fragments  of 
the  original  balconies,  and  the  usual  lateral  window  larger 
than  any  of  the  rest.  In  the  centre  of  its  arcade  on  the 


294 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


first  floor  is  the  inlaid  ornament  drawn  in  Plate  VIII.  Vol. 
I.  The  fresco  painting  on  the  walls  is  of  later  date ; and  I 
believe  the  heads  which  form  the  finials  have  been  inserted 
afterwards  also,  the  original  windows  having  been  pure 
fifth  order. 

The  building  is  now  a ruin,  inhabited  by  the  lowest  or- 
ders ; the  first  floor,  when  I was  last  in  Venice,  by  a laun- 
dress. 

Baffo,  Palazzo,  in  the  Campo  St.  Maurizio.  The  commonest 
late  Renaissance.  A few  olive  leaves  and  vestiges  of  two 
figures  still  remain  upon  it,  of  the  frescoes  by  Paul  Veronese, 
with  which  it  was  once  adorned. 

Balbi,  Palazzo,  in  Volta  di  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Barbarigo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  next  the  Casa  Pisani. 
Late  Benaissance  ; noticeable  only  as  a house  in  which  some 
of  the  best  pictures  of  Titian  were  allowed  to  be  ruined  by 
damp,  and  out  of  which  they  were  then  sold  to  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia. 

Barbaro,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  next  the  Palazzo  Cav- 
alli.  These  two  buildings  form  the  principal  objects  in  the 
foreground  of  the  view  which  almost  every  artist  seizes  on 
his  first  traverse  of  the  Grand  Canal,  the  Church  of  the 
Salute  forming  a most  graceful  distance.  Neither  is,  how- 
ever, of  much  value,  except  in  general  effect  ; but  the  Bar- 
bara is  the  best,  and  the  pointed  arcade  in  its  side  wall, 
seen  from  the  narrow  canal  between  it  and  the  Cavalli,  is 
good  Gothic,  of  the  earliest  fourteenth  century  type. 

Barnaba,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Bartolomeo,  Church  of  St.  I did  not  go  to  look  at  the  works 
of  Sebastian  del  Piombo  which  it  contains,  fully  crediting 
M.  Lazari’s  statement,  that  they  have  been  “ Barbaramente 
sfigurati  da  mani  imperite,  che  pretendevano  ristaurarli/ 
Otherwise  the  church  is  of  no  importance. 

Basso,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Battagia,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Beccherie.  See  Querini. 

Bembo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  next  the  Casa  Manin.  A 
noble  Gothic  pile,  circa  1350-1380,  which,  before  it  was 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


295 


painted  by  the  modern  Venetians  with  the  two  most  valuable 
colors  of  Tintoret,  Bianco  e Nero,  by  being  whitewashed 
above,  and  turned  into  a coal  warehouse  below,  must  have 
been  among  the  most  noble  in  effect  on  the  whole  Grand 
Canal.  It  still  forms  a beautiful  group  with  the  Rialto, 
some  large  shipping  being  generally  anchored  at  its  quay. 
Its  sea  story  and  entresol  are  of  earlier  date,  I believe,  than 
the  rest  ; the  doors  of  the  former  are  Byzantine  (see  above, 
Final  Appendix,  under  head  “ Jambs  ” ) ; and  above  the 
entresol  is  a beautiful  Byzantine  cornice,  built  into  the  wall, 
and  harmonizing  well  with  the  Gothic  work. 

Bembo,  Palazzo,  in  the  Calle  Magno,  at  the  Campo  de’  due 
Pozzi,  close  to  the  Arsenal.  Noticed  by  Lazari  and  Selva- 
tico  as  having  a very  interesting  staircase.  It  is  early  Gothic, 
circa  1330,  but  not  a whit  more  interesting  than  many  others 
of  similar  date  and  design.  See  “ Contarini  Porta  de 
Ferro,”  “Morosini,”  “ Sanudo,”  and  “Minelli.” 

Benedetto,  Campo  of  St,  Do  not  fail  to  see  the  superb, 
though  partially  ruinous,  Gothic  palace  fronting  this  little 
square.  It  is  very  late  Gothic,  just  passing  into  Renaissance ; 
unique  in  Venice,  in  masculine  character,  united  with  the 
delicacy  of  the  incipient  style.  Observe  especially  the 
brackets  of  the  balconies,  the  flower-work  on  the  cornices, 
and  the  arabesques  on  the  angles  of  the  balconies  them- 
selves. 

Benedetto,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Bernardo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  A very  noble  pile  of 
early  fifteenth  century  Gothic,  founded  on  the  Ducal  Pal- 
ace. The  traceries  in  its  lateral  windows  are  both  rich  and 
unusual. 

Bernardo,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Polo.  A glorious  palace,  on  a nar- 
row canal,  in  a part  of  Venice  now  inhabited  by  the  lower 
orders  only.  It  is  rather  late  Central  Gothic,  circa  1380- 
1400,  but  of  the  finest  kind,  and  superb  in  its  effect  of  color 
when  seen  from  the  side.  A capital  in  the  interior  court  is 
much  praised  by  Selvatico  and  Lazari,  because  its  “ fog- 
lie  d’  aeanto”  (anything  by  the  by,  but  acanthus),  “quasi 
agitate  de  vento  si  attorcigliano  d*  intorno  alia  campana, 


296 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


concetto  non  indegno  della  bell ’ epoca  greca ! ” Does  this 
mean  “ epoca  Bisantina  ? ” The  capital  is  simply  a trans- 
lation into  Gothic  sculpture  of  the  Byzantine  ones  of  St. 
Mark’s  and  the  Fondaco  de’  Turchi  (see  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  I. 
fig.  14),  and  is  far  inferior  to  either.  But,  taken  as  a whole, 
I think  that,  after  the  Ducal  Palace,  this  is  the  noblest  in 
effect  of  all  in  Venice. 

Brenta,  Banks  of  the,  I.  346.  Villas  on  the,  I.  347. 

Businello,  Casa,  II.  390. 

Byzantine  Palaces  generally,  II.  120. 

C 

Camerlenghi,  Palace  of  the,  beside  the  Rialto.  A graceful 
work  of  the  early  Renaissance  (1525)  passing  into  Roman 
Renaissance.  Its  details  are  inferior  to  most  of  the  work  of 
the  school.  The  “ Camerlenghi,”  properly  “ Camerlenghi 
di  Comune,”  were  the  three  officers  or  ministers  who  had 
care  of  the  administration  of  public  expenses. 

Cancellable,  II.  292. 

Canciano,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Cappello,  Palazz6,  at  St.  Aponal.  Of  no  interest.  Some  say 
that  Bianca  Cappello  fled  from  it  ; but  the  tradition  seems 
to  fluctuate  between  the  various  houses  belonging  to  her 
family. 

Carita,  Church  of  the.  Once  an  interesting  Gothic  church  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  lately  defaced,  and  applied  to  some 
of  the  usual  important  purposes  of  the  modern  Italians. 
The  effect  of  its  ancient  fa£ade  may  partly  be  guessed  at 
from  the  pictures  of  Canaletto,  but  only  guessed  at ; Cana- 
letto being  less  to  be  trusted  for  renderings  of  details,  than 
the  rudest  and  most  ignorant  painter  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. 

Carmini,  Church  of  the.  A most  interesting  church  of  late 
thirteenth  century  work,  but  much  altered  and  defaced. 
Its  nave,  in  which  the  early  shafts  and  capitals  of  the  pure 
truncate  form  are  unaltered,  is  very  fine  in  effect ; its  lateral 
porch  is  quaint  and  beautiful,  decorated  with  Byzantine  cir< 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


297 


cular  sculptures  (of  which  the  central  one  is  given  in  Yol. 
II.  Plate  XI.  fig.  5),  and  supported  on  two  shafts  whose  cap- 
itals are  the  most  archaic  examples  of  the  pure  Rose  form 
that  I know  in  Venice. 

There  is  a glorious  Tintoret  over  the  first  altar  on  the 
right  in  entering  ; the  “ Circumcision  of  Christ.”  I do  not 
know  an  aged  head  either  more  beautiful  or  more  pictur- 
esque than  that  of  the  high  priest.  The  cloister  is  full  of 
notable  tombs,  nearly  all  dated  ; one,  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, to  the  left  on  entering,  is  interesting  from  the  color 
still  left  on  the  leaves  and  flowers  of  its  sculptured  roses. 

Cassano,  Church  of  St.  This  church  must  on  no  account  be 
missed,  as  it  contains  three  Tintorets,  of  which  one,  the 
“ Crucifixion,”  is  among  the  finest  in  Europe.  There  is 
nothing  worth  notice  in  the  building  itself,  except  the  jamb 
of  an  ancient  door  (left  in  the  Renaissance  buildings,  facing 
the  canal),  which  has  been  given  among  the  examples  of 
Byzantine  jambs  ; and  the  traveller  may,  therefore,  devote 
his  entire  attention  to  the  three  pictures  in  the  chancel. 

1.  The  Crucifixion.  (On  the  left  of  the  high  altar.)  It  is 
refreshing  to  find  a picture  taken  care  of,  and  in  a bright 
though  not  a good  light,  so  that  such  parts  of  it  as  are  seen 
at  all  are  seen  well.  It  is  also  in  a better  state  than  most 
pictures  in  galleries,  and  most  remarkable  for  its  new  and 
strange  treatment  of  the  subject.  It  seems  to  have  been 
painted  more  for  the  artist’s  own  delight,  than  with  any 
labored  attempt  at  composition  ; the  horizon  is  so  low  that 
the  spectator  must  fancy  himself  lying  at  full  length  on  the 
grass,  or  rather  among  the  brambles  and  luxuriant  weeds, 
of  which  the  foreground  is  entirely  composed.  Among 
these,  the  seamless  robe  of  Christ  has  fallen  at  the  foot  of 
the  cross  ; the  rambling  briars  and  wild  grasses  thrown  here 
and  there  over  its  folds  of  rich,  but  pale,  crimson.  Behind 
them,  and  seen  through  them,  the  heads  of  a troop  of 
Roman  soldiers  are  raised  against  the  sky ; and,  above 
them,  their  spears  and  halberds  form  a thin  forest  against 
the  horizontal  clouds.  The  three  crosses  are  put  on  the 
extreme  right  of  the  picture,  and  its  centre  is  occupied  by 


298 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


the  executioners,  one  of  whom,  standing  on  a ladder,  re-* 
ceives  from  the  other  at  once  the  sponge  and  the  tablet 
with  the  letters  INRI.  The  Madonna  and  St.  John  are  on 
the  extreme  left,  superbly  painted,  like  all  the  rest,  but 
quite  subordinate.  In  fact,  the  whole  mind  of  the  painter 
seems  to  have  been  set  upon  making  the  principals  acces- 
sary, and  the  accessaries  principal.  We  look  first  at  the 
grass,  and  then  at  the  scarlet  robe  ; and  then  at  the  clump 
of  distant  spears,  and  then  at  the  sky,  and  last  of  all  at  the 
cross.  As  a piece  of  color,  the  picture  is  notable  for  its  ex- 
treme modesty.  There  is  not  a single  very  full  or  bright 
tint  in  any  part,  and  yet  the  color  is  delighted  in  through- 
out ; not  the  slightest  touch  of  it  but  is  delicious.  It  is 
worth  notice  also,  and  especially,  because  this  picture  being 
in  a fresh  state  we  are  sure  of  one  fact,  that,  like  nearly  all 
other  great  colorists,  Tin  tore  t was  afraid  of  light  greens  in 
his  vegetation.  He  often  uses  dark  blue  greens  in  his 
shadowed  trees,  but  here  where  the  grass  is  in  full  light,  it 
is  all  painted  with  varied  hues  of  sober  brown,  more  espe- 
cially where  it  crosses  the  crimson  robe.  The  handling  of 
the  whole  is  in  his  noblest  manner  ; and  I consider  the  pict- 
ure generally  quite  beyond  all  price.  It  was  cleaned,  I be- 
lieve, some  years  ago,  but  not  injured,  or  at  least  as  little 
injured  as  it  is  possible  for  a picture  to  be  which  has  under- 
gone any  cleaning  process  whatsoever. 

2.  The  Resurrection . (Over  the  high  altar.)  The  lower 
part  of  this  picture  is  entirely  concealed  by  a miniature 
temple,  about  five  feet  high,  on  the  top  of  the  altar  ; cer- 
tainly an  insult  little  expected  by  Tintoret,  as,  by  getting 
on  steps,  and  looking  over  the  said  temple,  one  may  see 
that  the  lower  figures  of  the  picture  are  the  most  labored. 
It  is  strange  that  the  painter  never  seemed  able  to  conceive 
this  subject  with  any  power,  and  in  the  present  work  he  is 
marvellously  hampered  by  various  types  and  conventionali- 
ties. It  is  not  a painting  of  the  Resurrection,  but  of 
Roman  Catholic  saints,  thinking  about  the  Resurrection. 
On  one  side  of  the  tomb  is  a bishop  in  full  robes,  on  the 
other  a female  saint,  I know  not  who  ; beneath  it,  an  angel 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


299 


playing  on  an  organ,  and  a cherub  blowing  it ; and  other 
cherubs  flying  about  the  sky,  with  flowers  ; the  whole  con- 
ception  being  a mass  of  Kenaissance  absurdities.  It  is, 
moreover,  heavily  painted,  over-done,  and  over-finished  ; 
and  the  forms  of  the  cherubs  utterly  heavy  and  vulgar.  I 
cannot  help  fancying  the  picture  has  been  restored  in  some 
way  or  another,  but  there  is  still  great  power  in  parts  of  it. 
If  it  be  a really  untouched  Tintoret,  it  is  a highly  curious 
example  of  failure  from  over-labor  on  a subject  into  which 
his  mind  was  not  thrown  : the  color  is  hot  and  harsh,  and 
felt  to  be  so  more  painfully,  from  its  opposition  to  the 
grand  coolness  and  chastity  of  the  “ Crucifixion.”  The  face 
of  the  angel  playing  the  organ  is  highly  elaborated  ; so, 
also,  the  flying  cherubs. 

3.  The  Descent  into  Hades . (On  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  high  altar.)  Much  injured  and  little  to  be  regretted.  I 
never  was  more  puzzled  by  any  picture,  the  painting  being 
throughout  careless,  and  in  some  places  utterly  bad,  and  yet 
not  like  modern  work  ; the  principal  figure,  however,  of 
Eve,  has  either  been  redone,  or  is  scholar’s  work  altogether, 
as,  I suspect,  most  of  the  rest  of  the  picture.  It  looks  as  if 
Tintoret  had  sketched  it  when  he  wTas  ill,  left  it  to  a bad 
scholar  to  work  on  with,  and  then  finished  it  in  a hurry  ; 
but  he  has  assuredly  had  something  to  do  with  it  ; it  is  not 
likely  that  anybody  else  would  have  refused  all  aid  from  the 
usual  spectral  company  with  which  common  painters  fill  the 
scene.  Bronzino,  for  instance,  covers  his  canvas  with  every 
form  of  monster  that  his  sluggish  imagination  could  coin. 
Tintoret  admits  only  a somewhat  haggard  Adam,  a graceful 
Eve,  two  or  three  Venetians  in  court  dress,  seen  amongst 
the  smoke,  and  a Satan  represented  as  a handsome  youth, 
recognizable  only  by  the  clawTs  on  his  feet.  The  picture  is 
dark  and  spoiled,  but  I am  pretty  sure  there  are  no  demons 
or  spectres  in  it.  This  is  quite  in  accordance  with  the  mas- 
ter’s caprice,  but  it  considerably  diminishes  the  interest  of 
a work  in  other  ways  unsatisfactory.  There  may  once  have 
been  something  impressive  in  the  shooting  in  of  the  rays  at 
the  top  of  the  cavern,  as  well  as  in  the  strange  grass  that 


300 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


grows  in  the  bottom,  whose  infernal  character  is  indicated 
by  its  all  being  knotted  together  ; but  so  little  of  these  parts 
can  be  seen,  that  it  is  not  worth  spending  time  on  a work 
certainly  unworthy  of  the  master,  and  in  great  part  proba- 
bly never  seen  by  him. 

Cattarina,  Church  of  St.,  said  to  contain  a chef-d'oeuvre  of 
Paul  Veronese,  the  “ Marriage  of  St.  Catherine.”  I have 
not  seen  it. 

Cavalli,  Palazzo,  opposite  the  Academy  of  Arts.  An  imposing 
pile,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  of  Renaissance  Gothic,  but  of 
little  merit  in  the  details  ; and  the  effect  of  its  traceries  has 
been  of  late  destroyed  by  the  fittings  of  modern  external 
blinds.  Its  balconies  are  good,  of  the  later  Gothic  type. 
See  “ Barbaro.” 

Cavalli,  Palazzo,  next  the  Casa  Grimani  (or  Post-Office), 
but  on  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  canal.  Good  Gothic, 
founded  on  the  Ducal  Palace,  circa  1380.  The  capitals  of 
the  first  story  are  remarkably  rich  in  the  deep  fillets  at  the 
necks.  The  crests,  heads  of  sea-horses,  inserted  between  the 
windows,  appear  to  be  later,  but  are  very  fine  of  their  kind. 

Cicogna,  Palazzo,  at  San  Sebastiano,  II.  264. 

Clemexte,  Church  of  St.  On  an  island  to  the  south  of  Venice, 
from  which  the  view  of  the  city  is  peculiarly  beautiful.  See 
“ Scalzi.” 

Contarini  Porta  di  Ferro,  Palazzo,  near  the  Church  of  St. 
John  and  Paul,  so  called  from  the  beautiful  ironwork  on  a 
door,  which  was  some  time  ago  taken  down  by  the  proprie- 
tor and  sold.  Mr.  Rawdon  Brown  rescued  some  of  the  or- 
naments from  the  hands  of  the  blacksmith,  who  had  bought 
them  for  old  iron.  The  head  of  the  door  is  a very  inter- 
esting stone  arch  of  the  early  thirteenth  century,  already 
drawn  in  my  folio  work.  In  the  interior  court  is  a beauti- 
ful remnant  of  staircase,  with  a piece  of  balcony  at  the  top, 
circa  1350,  and  one  of  the  most  richly  and  carefully  wrought 
in  Venice.  The  palace,  judging  by  these  remnants  (all 
that  are  now  left  of  it,  except  a single  traceried  window  of 
the  same  date  at  the  turn  of  the  stair),  must  once  have  been 
among  the  most  magnificent  in  Venice. 


VENETIAN  INDEX, . 


301 


Contaeini  (delle  Figure),  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  III.  20. 

Contarini  DAI  Scrigni,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  CanaL  A Gothic 
building,  founded  on  the  Ducal  Palace.  Two  Eenaissance 
statues  in  niches  at  the  sides  give  it  its  name. 

Contarini  Fasan,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  II.  244.  The 
richest  work  of  the  fifteenth  century  domestic  Gothic  in 
Venice,  but  notable  more  for  richness  than  excellence  of 
design.  In  one  respect,  however,  it  deserves  to  be  re- 
garded with  attention,  as  showing  how  much  beauty  and 
dignity  may  be  bestowed  on  a very  small  and  unimportant 
dwelling-house  by  Gothic  sculpture.  Foolish  criticisms 
upon  it  have  appeared  in  English  accounts  of  foreign  build- 
ings, objecting  to  it  on  the  ground  of  its  being  “ill-pro- 
portioned ; ” the  simple  fact  being,  that  there  was  no  room 
in  this  part  of  the  canal  for  a wider  house,  and  that  its 
builder  made  its  rooms  as  comfortable  as  he  could,  and 
its  windows  and  balconies  of  a convenient  size  for  those 
who  were  to  see  through  them,  and  stand  on  them,  and 
left  the  “ proportions  ” outside  to  take  care  of  themselves ; 
which,  indeed,  they  have  very  sufficiently  done  ; for  though 
the  house  thus  honestly  confesses  its  diminutiveness,  it  is 
nevertheless  one  of  the  principal  ornaments  of  the  very 
noblest  reach  of  the  Grand  Canal,  and  would  be  nearly  as 
great  a loss,  if  it  were  destroyed,  as  the  Church  of  La 
Salute  itself. 

Contarini,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Luca.  Of  no  importance. 

Corner  della  Ca’  grande,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  CanaL  One 
of  the  worst  and  coldest  buildings  of  the  central  Renais- 
sance. It  is  on  a grand  scale,  and  is  a conspicuous  ob- 
ject, rising  over  the  roofs  of  the  neighboring  houses  in  the 
various  aspects  of  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal,  and  in 
the  general  view  of  Venice  from  San  Clemente. 

Corner  della  Regina,  Palazzo.  A late  Renaissance  building 
of  no  merit  or  interest. 

Corner  Mocenigo,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Polo.  Of  no  interest. 

Corner  Spinelli,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  A graceful 
and  interesting  example  of  the  early  Renaissance*  remark- 
able  for  its  pretty  circular  balconies. 


302 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE \ 


Corner,  Raccolta.  I must  refer  the  reader  to  M.  Lazari’s 
Guide  for  an  account  of  this  collection,  which,  however, 
ought  only  to  be  visited  if  the  traveller  is  not  pressed  for 
time. 

D 

Dandolo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Between  the  Casa 
Loredan  and  Casa  Bembo  is  a range  of  modern  buildings, 
some  of  which  occupy,  I believe,  the  site  of  the  palace  once 
inhabited  by  the  Doge  Henry  Dandolo.  Fragments  of 
early  architecture  of  the  Byzantine  school  may  still  be 
traced  in  many  places  among  their  foundations,  and  two 
doors  in  the  foundation  of  the  Casa  Bembo  itself  belong 
to  the  same  group.  There  is  only  one  existing  palace, 
however,  of  any  value,  on  this  spot,  a very  small  but  rich 
Gothic  one  of  about  1300,  with  two  groups  of  fourth  order 
windows  in  its  second  and  third  stories,  and  some  Byzantine 
circular  mouldings  built  into  it  above.  This  is  still  re- 
ported to  have  belonged  to  the  family  of  Dandolo,  and 
ought  to  be  carefully  preserved,  as  it  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting and  ancient  Gothic  palaces  which  yet  remain. 

Danieli  Albergo.  See  Nani.  , 

Da  Ponte,  Palazzo.  Of  no  interest. 

Dario,  Palazzo,  I.  363  ; III.  211. 

Dogana  di  Mare,  at  the  separation  of  the  Grand  Canal  from 
the  Giudecca.  A barbarous  building  of  the  time  of  the 
Grotesque  Renaissance  (1676),  rendered  interesting  only 
by  its  position.  The  statue  of  Fortune,  forming  the 
weathercock,  standing  on  the  world,  is  alike  characteristic 
of  the  conceits  of  the  time,  and  of  the  hopes  and  principles 
of  the  last  days  of  Venice. 

Donato,  Church  of  St.,  at  Murano,  II.  36. 

Dona’,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  I believe  the  palace  de- 
scribed under  this  name  as  of  the  twelfth  century,  by  M. 
Lazari,  is  that  which  I have  called  the  Braided  House,  II. 
134,  392. 

D’  Oro  Casa.  A noble  pile  of  very  quaint  Gothic,  one  superb 
in  general  effect,  but  now  destroyed  by  restorations.  I saw 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


303 


the  beautiful  slabs  of  red  marble,  which  formed  the  bases 
of  its  balconies,  and  were  carved  into  noble  spiral  mould- 
ings of  strange  sections,  half  a foot  deep,  dashed  to  pieces 
when  I was  last  in  Venice  ; its  glorious  interior  staircase, 
by  far  the  most  interesting  Gothic  monument  of  the  kind 
in  Venice,  had  been  carried  away,  piece  by  piece,  and  sold 
for  waste  marble,  two  years  before.  Of  what  remains,  the 
most  beautiful  portions  are,  or  were,  when  I last  saw  them, 
the  capitals  of  the  windows  in  the  upper  story,  most  glori- 
ous sculpture  of  the  fourteenth  century.  The  fantastic 
window  traceries  are,  I think,  later  ; but  the  rest  of  the 
architecture  of  this  palace  is  anomalous,  and  I cannot  vent- 
ure to  give  any  decided  opinion  respecting  it.  Parts  of 
its  mouldings  are  quite  Byzantine  in  character,  but  look 
somewhat  like  imitations. 

Ducal  Palace,  I.  43  ; history  of,  II.  281,  etc.  ; III.  199  ; plan 
and  section  of,  IL  281,  282  ; description  of,  II.  304,  etc.  ; 
series  of  its  capitals,  II.  332,  etc.  ; spandrils  of,  I.  294,  410  ; 
shafts  of,  I.  409  ; traceries  of,  derived  from  those  of  the 
Frari,  II.  234  ; angles  of,  II.  239  ; main  balcony  of,  II.  245  ; 
base  of,  III.  213  ; Bio  Fayade  of,  III.  28  ; paintings  in,  II. 
370.  The  multitude  of  works  by  various  masters,  which 
cover  the  walls  of  this  palace  is  so  great,  that  the  traveller 
is  in  general  merely  wearied  and  confused  by  them.  He 
had  better  refuse  all  attention  except  to  the  following 
works  : 

1.  Paradise , by  Tintoret ; at  the  extremity  of  the  Great 
Council  chamber.  I found  it  impossible  to  count  the  num- 
ber of  figures  in  this  picture,  of  which  the  grouping  is  so 
intricate,  that  at  the  upper  part  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish 
one  figure  from  another  ; but  I counted  150  important 
figures  in  one  half  of  it  alone  ; so  that,  as  there  are  nearly 
as  many  in  subordinate  position,  the  total  number  cannot 
be  under  500.  I believe  this  is,  on  the  whole,  Tintoret’s 
chef-d'oeuvre  ; though  it  is  so  vast  that  no  one  takes  the 
trouble  to  read  it,  and  therefore  less  wTonderful  pictures  are 
preferred  to  it.  I have  not  myself  been  able  to  study  ex- 
cept a few  fragments  of  it,  all  executed  in  his  finest  man* 


304 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ner  ; but  it  may  assist  a hurried  observer  to  point  out  ta 
him  that  the  whole  composition  is  divided  into  concentric 
zones,  represented  one  above  another  like  the  stories  of  a 
cupola,  round  the  figures  of  Christ  and  the  Madonna,  at  the 
central  and  highest  point : both  these  figures  are  exceed- 
ingly dignified  and  beautiful.  Between  each  zone  or  belt 
of  the  nearer  figures,  the  white  distances  of  heaven  are  seen 
filled  with  floating  spirits.  The  picture  is,  on  the  whole, 
wonderfully  preserved,  and  the  most  precious  thing  that 
Venice  possesses.  She  will  not  possess  it  long ; for  the 
Venetian  academicians,  finding  it  exceedingly  unlike  their 
own  works,  declare  it  to  want  harmony,  and  are  going  to 
retouch  it  to  their  own  ideas  of  perfection. 

2.  Siege  of  Zara  ; the  first  picture  on  the  right  on  ente*-* 
ing  the  Sala  del  Scrutinio.  It  is  a mere  battle  piece,  in 
which  the  figures,  like  the  arrows,  are  put  in  by  the  score. 
There  are  high  merits  in  the  thing,  and  so  much  invention 
that  it  is  possible  Tintoret  may  have  made  the  sketch  for 
it  ; but,  if  executed  by  him  at  all,  he  has  done  it  merely  in 
the  temper  in  which  a sign-painter  meets  the  wishes  of  an 
ambitious  landlord.  He  seems  to  have  been  ordered  to 
represent  all  the  events  of  the  battle  at  once  ; and  to  have 
felt  that,  provided  he  gave  men,  arrows,  and  ships  enough, 
his  employers  would  be  perfectly  satisfied.  The  picture  is 
a vast  one,  some  thirty  feet  by  fifteen. 

Various  other  pictures  will  be  pointed  out  by  the  custode, 
in  these  two  rooms,  as  worthy  of  attention,  but  they  are 
only  historically,  not  artistically,  interesting.  The  works  of 
Paul  Veronese  on  the  ceiling  have  been  repainted  ; and  the 
rest  of  the  pictures  on  the  walls  are  by  second-rate  mem 
The  traveller  must,  once  for  all,  be  warned  against  mis- 
taking the  works  of  Domenico  Robusti  (Domenico  Tinto- 
retto), a very  miserable  painter,  for  those  of  his  illustrious 
father,  Jacopo. 

3.  The  Doge  Grimani  kneeling  before  Faith , by  Titian  ; in 
the  Sala  delle  quattro  Porte.  To  be  observed  with  care,  as 
one  of  the  most  striking  examples  of  Titian’s  want  of  feel* 
ing  and  coarseness  of  conception.  (See  above,  Vol.  I.  p 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


305 


25.)  As  a work  of  mere  art,  it  is,  however,  of  great  value. 
The  traveller  who  has  been  accustomed  to  deride  Turner’s 
indistinctness  of  touch,  ought  to  examine  carefully  the 
mode  of  painting  the  Venice  in  the  distance  at  the  bottom 
of  this  picture. 

4.  Frescoes  on  the  Roof  of  the  Sala  delle , quattro  Forte , by 
Tintoret.  Once  magnificent  beyond  description,  now  mere 
wrecks  (the  plaster  crumbling  away  in  large  flakes),  but  yet 
deserving  of  the  most  earnest  study. 

5.  Christ  taken  down  from  the  Cross , by  Tintoret ; at  the 
upper  end  of  the  Sala  dei  Pregadi.  One  of  the  most  inter- 
esting mythic  pictures  of  Venice,  two  doges  being  repre- 
sented beside  the  body  of  Christ,  and  a most  noble  paint- 
ing ; executed,  however,  for  distant  effect,  and  seen  best 
from  the  end  of  the  room. 

6.  Venice,  Queen  of  the  Sea,  by  Tintoret.  Central  com- 
partment of  the  ceiling,  in  the  Sala  dei  Pregadi.  Notable 
for  the  sweep  of  its  vast  green  surges,  and  for  the  daring 
character  of  its  entire  conception,  though  it  is  wild  and 
careless,  and  in  many  respects  unworthy  of  the  master. 
Note  the  way  in  which  he  has  used  the  fantastic  forms  of 
the  sea  weeds,  wfith  respect  to  what  was  above  stated  (III. 
158),  as  to  his  love  of  the  grotesque. 

7.  The  Doge  Loredano  in  Prayer  to  the  Virgin , by  Tin- 
toret ; in  the  same  room.  Sickly  and  pale  in  color,  yet  a 
grand  work ; to  be  studied,  however,  more  for  the  sake  of 
seeing  what  a great  man  does  “to  order,”  when  he  is 
wearied  of  what  is  required  from  him,  than  for  its  own 
merit. 

8.  St.  George  and  the  Princess.  There  are,  besides  the 
“ Paradise,”  only  six  pictures  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  as  far  as 
I know,  which  Tintoret  painted  carefully,  and  those  are  all 
exceedingly  fine  : the  most  finished  of  these  are  in  the 
Anti-Collegio  ; but  those  that  are  most  majestic  and  char 
acteristic  of  the  master  are  two  oblong  ones,  made  to  fill 
the  panels  of  the  walls  in  the  Anti-Clnesetta  ; these  two, 
each,  I suppose,  about  eight  feet  by  six,  are  in  his  most 
quiet  and  noble  manner.  There  is  excessively  little  color 

Vol.  III.—  20 


306 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


in  them,  their  prevalent  tone  being  a greyish  brown  op- 
posed with  grey,  black,  and  a very  warm  russet.  They  are 
thinly  painted,  perfect  in  tone,  and  quite  untouched.  The 
first  of  them  is  “ St.  George  and  the  Dragon,5’  the  subject 
being  treated  in  a new  and  curious  way.  The  principal 
figure  is  the  princess,  who  sits  astride  on  the  dragon’s  neck, 
holding  him  by  a bridle  of  silken  riband  ; St.  George  stands 
above  and  behind  her,  holding  his  hands  over  her  head  as 
if  to  bless  her,  or  to  keep  the  dragon  quiet  by  heavenly 
power ; and  a monk  stands  by  on  the  right,  looking  gravely 
on.  There  is  no  expression  or  life  in  the  dragon,  though 
the  white  flashes  in  its  eye  are  very  ghastly  : but  the  whole 
thing  is  entirely  typical ; and  the  princess  is  not  so  much 
represented  riding  on  the  dragon,  as  supposed  to  be  placed 
by  St.  George  in  an  attitude  of  perfect  victory  over  her 
chief  enemy.  She  has  a full  rich  dress  of  dull  red,  but  her 
figure  is  somewhat  ungraceful.  St.  George  is  in  grey 
armor  and  grey  drapery,  and  has  a beautiful  face  ; his 
figure  entirely  dark  against  the  distant  sky.  There  is  a 
study  for  this  picture  in  the  Manfrini  Palace. 

9.  St.  Andrew  and  St.  Jerome . This,  the  companion  pict- 
ure, has  even  less  color  than  its  opposite.  It  is  nearly  all 
brown  and  grey  ; the  fig-leaves  and  olive  leaves  brown,  the 
faces  brown,  the  dresses  brown,  and  St.  Andrew  holding  a 
great  brown  cross.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be  called 
color,  except  the  grey  of  the  sky,  which  approaches  in  some 
places  a little  to  blue,  and  a single  piece  of  dirty  brick-red 
in  St.  Jerome’s  dress  ; and  yet  Tintoret’s  greatness  hardly 
ever  shows  more  than  in  the  management  of  such  sober 
tints.  I would  rather  have  these  two  small  brown  pictures, 
and  two  others  in  the  Academy  perfectly  brown  also  in 
their  general  tone — the  “ Cain  and  Abel”  and  the  “Adam 
and  Eve,” — than  all  the  other  small  pictures  in  Venice  put 
together,  which  he  painted  in  bright  colors,  for  altar  pieces ; 
but  I never  saw  two  pictures  which  so  nearly  approached 
grisailles  as  these,  and  yet  were  delicious  pieces  of  color.  I 
do  not  know  if  I am  right  in  calling  one  of  the  saints  St. 
Andrew.  He  stands  holding  a great  upright  wooden  cross 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


307 


against  the  sky.  St.  Jerome  reclines  at  his  feet,  against  a 
rock,  over  which  some  glorious  fig  leaves  and  olive  "branches 
are  shooting  ; every  line  of  them  studied  with  the  most  ex' 
quisite  care,  and  yet  cast  with  perfect  freedom. 

10.  Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  The  most  beautiful  of  the 
four  careful  pictures  by  Tintoret,  which  occupy  the  angles 
of  the  Anti-Collegio.  Once  one  of  the  noblest  pictures  in 
the  world,  but  now  miserably  faded,  the  sun  being  allowed 
to  fall  on  it  all  day  long.  The  design  of  the  forms  of  the 
leafage  round  the  head  of  the  Bacchus,  and  the  floating 
grace  of  the  female  figure  above,  will,  however,  always  give 
interest  to  this  picture,  unless  it  be  repainted. 

The  other  three  Tintorets  in  this  room  are  careful  and 
fine,  but  far  inferior  to  the  “ Bacchus  ; ” and  the  “ Vulcan 
and  the  Cyclops  ” is  a singularly  meagre  and  vulgar  study 
of  common  models. 

11.  Europa , by  Paul  Veronese  : in  the  same  room.  One 
of  the  very  few  pictures  which  both  possess  and  deserve  a 
high  reputation. 

12.  Venice  enthroned , by  Paul  Veronese  ; on  the  roof  of 
the  same  room.  One  of  the  grandest  pieces  of  frank  color 
in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

13.  Venice , and  the  Doge  Sebastian  Venier  ; at  the  upper 
end  of  the  Sala  del  Collegio.  An  unrivalled  Paul  Veronese, 
far  finer  even  than  the  “Europa.” 

14.  Marrmge  of  St.  Catherine , by  Tintoret ; in  the  same 
room.  An  inferior  picture,  but  the  figure  of  St.  Catherine 
is  quite  exquisite.  Note  how  her  veil  falls  over  her  form, 
showing  the  sky  through  it,  as  an  alpine  cascade  falls  over 
a marble  rock. 

Tiiere  are  three  other  Tintorets  on  the  walls  of  this  room, 
but  all  inferior,  though  full  of  power.  Note  especially  the 
painting  of  the  lion’s  wings,  and  of  the  colored  carpet,  in 
the  one  nearest  the  throne,  the  Doge  Alvise  Mocenigo  ador- 
ing the  Bedeemer. 

The  roof  is  entirely  by  Paul  Veronese,  and  the  traveller 
who  really  loves  painting,  ought  to  get  leave  to  come  to  this 
room  whenever  he  chooses  ; and  should  pass  the  sunny 


308 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


summer  mornings  there  again  and  again,  wandering  now 
and  then  into  the  Anti-Collegio  and  Sala  dei  Pregadi  and 
coming  back  to  rest  under  the  wings  of  the  couched  lion  at 
the  feet  of  the  “ Mocenigo.”  He  will  no  otherwise  enter  so 
deeply  into  the  heart  of  Venice. 

E 

Emo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  interest. 

Erizzo,  Palazzo,  near  the  Arsenal,  II.  261. 

Erizzo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  nearly  opposite  the  Fon- 
daco  de’  Turchi.  A Gothic  Palace,  with  a single  range  of 
windows  founded  on  the  Ducal  traceries,  and  bold  capitals. 
It  has  been  above  referred  to  in  the  notice  of  tracery  bars. 

Eufemia,  Church  of  St.  A small  and  defaced,  but  very  cu- 
rious, early  Gothic  church  on  the  Giudecca.  Not  worth 
visiting,  unless  the  traveller  is  seriously  interested  in  ar- 
chitecture. 

Europa,  Albergo,  all5.  Once  a Giustiniani  Palace.  Good 
Gothic,  circa  1400,  but  much  altered. 

Evangelisti,  Casa  degli,  II.  264. 

F 

Facanon,  Palazzo  (alla  Fava).  A fair  example  of  the  fifteenth 
century  Gothic,  founded  on  Ducal  Palace. 

Falier,  Palazzo,  at  the  Apostoli.  Above,  II.  252. 

Fantino,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a J ohn  Bellini,  other- 
wise of  no  importance. 

Farsetti,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  II.  126,  392. 

Fava,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Felice,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Tintoret,  which,  if 
untouched,  I should  conjecture,  from  Lazari’s  statement  of 
its  subject,  St.  Demetrius  armed,  with  one  of  the  Ghisi  fam- 
ily in  prayer,  must  be  very  fine.  Otherwise  the  church  is 
of  no  importance. 

Ferro,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Fifteenth  century 
Gothic,  very  hard  and  bad. 

Flangini,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  importance* 

Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  I.  322  ; II.  122,  128,  236.  The  opposite 


i§ '%  pp 


y.p  \ ■ / 


Plate  XII.— Capitals  of  Fondaca  de’  Turchi, 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


309 


plate,  representing  three  of  its  capitals,  has  been  several 
times  referred  to. 

Fondaco  de’  Tedeschi.  A huge  and  ugly  building  near  the 
Eialto,  rendered,  however,  peculiarly  interesting  by  rem- 
nants of  the  frescoes  by  Giorgione  with  which  it  was  once 
covered.  See  Yol.  II.  83,  and  III.  26. 

Formosa,  Church  of  Santa  Maria,  III.  114,  123. 

Fosca,  Church  of  St.  Notable  for  its  exceedingly  picturesque 
campanile,  of  late  Gothic,  but  uninjured  by  restorations,  and 
peculiarly  Venetian  in  being  crowned  by  the  cupola  instead 
of  the  pyramid,  which  would  have  been  employed  at  the 
same  period  in  any  other  Italian  city. 

Foscari,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  The  noblest  example 
in  Venice  of  the  fifteenth  century  Gothic,  founded  on  the 
Ducal  Palace,  but  lately  restored  and  spoiled,  all  but  the 
stone-work  of  the  main  windows.  The  restoration  was 
necessary,  however  : for,  when  I was  in  Venice  in  1845,  this 
palace  was  a foul  ruin  ; its  great  hall  a mass  of  mud,  used 
as  a back  receptacle  of  a stone-mason’s  yard  ; and  its  rooms 
whitewashed,  and  scribbled  over  with  indecent  caricatures. 
It  has  since  been  partially  strengthened  and  put  in  order  ; 
but  as  the  Venetian  municipality  have  now  given  it  to  the 
Austrians  to  be  used  as  barracks,  it  will  probably  soon  be 
reduced  to  its  former  condition.  The  lower  palaces  at  the 
side  of  this  building  are  said  by  some  to  have  belonged  to 
the  younger  Foscari.  See  “ Giustiniani.” 

Francesco  Della  Vigna,  Church  of  St.  Base  Renaissance, 
but  must  be  visited  in  order  to  see  the  John  Bellini  in  the 
Cappella  Santa.  The  late  sculpture,  in  the  Cappella  Giustin- 
iani, appears  from  Lazari’s  statement  to  be  deserving  of 
careful  study.  This  church  is  said  also  to  contain  two  pict- 
ures by  Paul  Veronese. 

Frari,  Church  of  the.  Founded  in  1250,  and  continued  at 
various  subsequent  periods.  The  apse  and  adjoining 
chapels  are  the  earliest  portions,  and  their  traceries  have 
been  above  noticed  (II.  234)  as  the  origin  of  those  of  the 
Ducal  Palace.  The  best  view  of  the  apse,  which  is  a very 
noble  example  of  Italian  Gothic,  is  from  the  door  of  the 


310 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Scuola  di  San  Rocco.  The  doors  of  the  church  are  all  later 
than  any  other  portion  of  it,  very  elaborate  Renaissance 
Gothic.  The  interior  is  good  Gothic,  but  not  interesting, 
except  in  its  monuments.  Of  these,  the  following  are  no- 
ticed in  the  text  of  this  volume  : 

That  of  Duccio  degli  Alberti,  at  pages  76,  82  ; of  the  un- 
known Knight,  opposite  that  of  Duccio,  III.  76  ; of  Fran- 
cesco Foscari,  III.  86 ; of  Giovanni  Pesaro,  93 ; of  Jacopo 
Pesaro,  94. 

Besides  these  tombs,  the  traveller  ought  to  notice  care- 
fully that  of  Pietro  Bernardo,  a first-rate  example  of  Renais- 
sance wTork  ; nothing  can  be  more  detestable  or  mindless 
in  general  design,  or  more  beautiful  in  execution.  Exam- 
ine especially  the  griffins,  fixed  in  admiration  of  bouquets, 
at  the  bottom.  The  fruit  and  flowers  which  arrest  the  at- 
tention of  the  griffins  may  well  arrest  the  traveller’s  also ; 
nothing  can  be  finer  of  their  kind.  The  tomb  of  Canova, 
by  Canova,  cannot  be  missed  ; consummate  in  science,  in- 
tolerable in  affectation,  ridiculous  in  conception,  null  and 
void  to  the  uttermost  in  invention  and  feeling.  The  eques- 
trian statue  of  Paolo  Savelli  is  spirited  ; the  monument  of 
the  Beato  Pacifico,  a curious  example  of  Renaissance  Gothic 
with  wild  crockets  (all  in  terra  cotta).  There  are  several 
good  Vivarini’s  in  the  church,  but  its  chief  pictorial  treas- 
ure is  the  John  Bellini  in  the  sacristy,  the  most  finished 
and  delicate  example  of  the  master  in  Venice. 

G 

Geremia,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Gesuati,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Giacomo  de  Lorio,  Church  of  St.,  a most  interesting  church, 
of  the  early  thirteenth  century,  but  grievously  restored.  Its 
capitals  have  been  already  noticed  as  characteristic  of  the 
earliest  Gothic  ; and  it  is  said  to  contain  four  works  of 
Paul  Veronese,  but  I have  not  examined  them.  The  pulpit 
is  admired  by  the  Italians,  but  is  utterly  worthless.  The 
verd-antique  pillar,  in  the  south  transept,  is  a very  noble  ex- 
ample of  the  “ Jewel  Shaft.”  See  the  note  at  p.  85,  Vol.  II 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


311 


Giacomo  di  Rialto,  Church  of  St.  A picturesque  little  church, 
on  the  Piazza  di  Rialto.  It  has  been  grievously  restored, 
but  the  pillars  and  capitals  of  its  nave  are  certainly  of  the 
eleventh  century  ; those  of  its  portico  are  of  good  central 
Gothic  ; and  it  will  surely  not  be  left  unvisited,  on  this 
ground,  if  on  no  other,  that  it  stands  on  the  site,  and  still 
retains  the  name,  of  the  first  church  ever  built  on  that  Ri- 
alto which  formed  the  nucleus  of  future  Yenice,  and  be- 
came afterwards  the  mart  of  her  merchants. 

Giobbe,  Church  of  St.,  near  the  Cana  Reggio.  Its  principal 
entrance  is  a very  fine  example  of  early  Renaissance  sculpt- 
ure. Note  in  it,  especially,  its  beautiful  use  of  the  flower 
of  the  convolvulus.  There  are  said  to  be  still  more  beauti- 
ful examples  of  the  same  period,  in  the  interior.  The  clois- 
ter, though  much  defaced,  is  of  the  Gothic  period,  and 
worth  a glance. 

Giorgio  de’  Greci,  Church  of  St.  The  Greek  Church.  It 
contains  no  valuable  objects  of  art,  but  its  service  is  worth 
attending  by  those  who  have  never  seen  the  Greek  ritual. 

Giorgio  de’  Schiavoni,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a very 
precious  series  of  paintings  by  Victor  Carpaccio.  Other- 
wise of  no  interest. 

Giorgio  in  Aliga  (St.  George  in  the  seaweed),  Church  of  St. 
Unimportant  in  itself,  but  the  most  beautiful  view  of  Venice 
at  sunset  is  from  a point  at  about  two  thirds  of  the  distance 
from  the  city  to  the  island. 

Giorgio  Maggiore,  Church  of  St.  A building  which  owes  its 
interesting  effect  chiefly  to  its  isolated  position,  being  seen 
over  a great  space  of  lagoon.  The  traveller  should  especially 
notice  in  its  fa£ade  the  manner  in  wdiich  the  central  Renais- 
sance architects  (of  wThose  style  this  church  is  a renowned 
example)  endeavored  to  fit  the  laws  they  had  established  to 
the  requirements  of  their  age.  Churches  were  required 
with  aisles  and  clerestories,  that  is  to  say,  with  a high  cen- 
tral nave  and  lower  wings ; and  the  question  was,  how  to 
face  this  form  with  pillars  of  one  proportion.  The  noble 
Romanesque  architects  built  story  above  story,  as  at  Pisa 
and  Lucca  ; but  the  base  Palladian  architects  dared  not  do 


312 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


this.  They  must  needs  retain  some  image  of  the  Greek 
temple  ; but  'the  Greek  temple  was  all  of  one  height,  a low 
gable  roof  being  borne  on  ranges  of  equal  pillars.  So  the 
Palladian  builders  raised  first  a Greek  temple  with  pilasters 
for  shafts  ; and,  through  the  middle  of  its  roof,  or  horizontal 
beam,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  cornice  which  externally  repre- 
sented this  beam,  they  lifted  another  temple  on  pedestals, 
adding  these  barbarous  appendages  to  the  shafts,  which 
otherwise  would  not  have  been  high  enough  ; fragments  of 
the  divided  cornice  or  tie-beam  being  left  between  the 
shafts,  and  the  great  door  of  the  church  thrust  in  between 
the  pedestals.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a design  more 
gross,  more  barbarous,  more  childish  in  conception,  more 
servile  in  plagiarism,  more  insipid  in  result,  more  con- 
temptible under  every  point  of  rational  regard. 

Observe,  also,  that  when  Palladio  had  got  his  pediment  at 
the  top  of  the  church,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it ; 
he  had  no  idea  of  decorating  it  except  by  a round  hole  in 
the  middle.  (The  traveller  should  compare,  both  in  con- 
struction and  decoration,  the  Church  of  the  Redentore  with 
this  of  San  Giorgio.)  Now,  a dark  penetration  is  often  a 
most  precious  assistance  to  a building  dependent  upon 
color  for  its  effect ; for  a cavity  is  the  only  means  in  the 
architect’s  power  of  obtaining  certain  and  vigorous  shadow  ; 
and  for  this  purpose,  a circular  penetration,  surrounded  by 
a deep  russet  marble  moulding,  is  beautifully  used  in  the 
centre  of  the  white  field  on  the  side  of  the  portico  of  St. 
Mark’s.  But  Palladio  had  given  up  color,  and  pierced  his 
pediment  with  a circular  cavity,  merely  because  he  had  not 
wit  enough  to  fill  it  with  sculpture.  The  interior  of  the 
church  is  like  a large  assembly  room,  and  would  have  been 
undeserving  of  a moment’s  attention,  but  that  it  contains 
some  most  precious  pictures,  namely  : 

1.  Gathering  the  Manna.  (On  ilie  left  hand  of  the  high 
altar.)  One  of  Tin  tore  t’s  most  remarkable  landscapes.  A 

brook  flowing  through  a mountainous  country,  studded 
with  thickets  and  palm  trees ; the  congregation  have  been 
long  in  the  Wilderness,  and  are  employed  in  various  manu* 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


313 


factures  much  more  than  in  gathering  the  manna.  One 
group  is  forging,  another  grinding  manna  in  a mill,  another 
making  shoes,  one  woman  making  a piece  of  dress,  some 
washing  ; the  main  purpose  of  Tintoret  being  evidently  to 
indicate  the  continuity  of  the  supply  of  heavenly  food.  An- 
other painter  would  have  made  the  congregation  hurrying 
to  gather  it,  and  wondering  at  it ; Tintoret  at  once  makes 
us  remember  that  they  have  been  fed  with  it  <c  by  the  space 
of  forty  years.5’  It  is  a large  picture,  full  of  interest  and 
power,  but  scattered  in  effect,  and  not  striking  except  from 
its  elaborate  landscape. 

2.  The  Last  Supper.  (Opposite  the  former.)  These  two 
pictures  have  been  painted  for  their  places,  the  subjects 
being  illustrative  of  the  sacrifice  of  the  mass.  This  latter  is 
remarkable  for  its  entire  homeliness  in  the  general  treat- 
ment of  the  subject ; the  entertainment  being  represented 
like  any  large  supper  in  a second-rate  Italian  inn,  the  figures 
being  all  comparatively  uninteresting  ; but  we  are  reminded 
that  the  subject  is  a sacred  one,  not  only  by  the  strong 
light  shining  from  the  head  of  Christ,  but  because  the  smoke 
of  the  lamp  which  hangs  over  the  table  turns,  as  it  rises, 
into  a multitude  of  angels,  all  painted  in  grey,  the  color  of 
the  smoke  ; and  so  writhed  and  twisted  together  that  the 
eye  hardly  at  first  distinguishes  them  from  the  vapor  out  of 
which  they  are  formed,  ghosts  of  countenances  and  filmy 
wings  filling  up  the  intervals  between  the  completed  heads. 
The  idea  is  highly  characteristic  of  the  master.  The  picture 
has  been  grievously  injured,  but  still  shows  miracles  of  skill 
in  the  expression  of  candle-light  mixed  with  twilight  ; vari- 
ously reflected  rays,  and  half  tones  of  the  dimly  lighted 
chamber,  mingled  with  the  beams  of  the  lantern  and  those 
from  the  head  of  Christ,  flashing  along  the  metal  and  glass 
upon  the  table,  and  under  it  along  the  floor,  and  dying 
away  into  the  recesses  of  the  room. 

3.  Martyrdom  of  various  Saints.  (Altar  piece  of  the  third 
altar  in  the  South  aisle.)  A moderately  sized  picture,  and 
now  a very  disagreeable  one,  owing  to  the  violent  red  into 
which  the  color  that  formed  the  glory  of  the  angel  at  the  top 


314 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


is  changed.  It  has  been  hastily  painted,  and  only  shows  the 
artist’s  power  in  the  energy  of  the  figure  of  an  executioner 
drawing  a bow,  and  in  the  magnificent  ease  with  which  the 
other  figures  are  thrown  together  in  all  manner  of  wild 
groups  and  defiances  of  probability.  Stones  and  arrows  are 
flying  about  in  the  air  at  random. 

4.  Coronation  of  the  Virgin . (Fourth  altar  in  the  same 
aisle.)  Painted  more  for  the  sake  of  the  portraits  at  the 
bottom,  than  of  the  Virgin  at  the  top.  A good  picture,  but 
somewhat  tame  for  Tintoret,  and  much  injured.  The  prin- 
cipal figure,  in  black,  is  still,  however,  very  fine. 

5.  Resurrection  of  Christ . (At  the  end  of  the  north  aisle, 
in  the  chapel  beside  the  choir.)  Another  picture  painted 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  included  portraits,  and  remarkably 
cold  in  general  conception  ; its  color  has,  however,  been  gay 
and  delicate,  lilac,  yellow,  and  blue  being  largely  used  in  it. 
The  flag  which  our  Saviour  bears  in  his  hand,  has  been  once 
as  bright  as  the  sail  of  a Venetian  fishing-boat,  but  the  colors 
are  now  all  chilled,  and  the  picture  is  rather  crude  than  bril- 
liant ; a mere  wreck  of  what  it  was,  and  all  covered  vrith 
droppings  of  wax  at  the  bottom. 

G.  Martyrdom  of  St.  Stephen . (Altar  piece  in  the  north 
transept.)  The  Saint  is  in  a rich  prelate’s  dress,  looking  as 
if  he  had  just  been  saying  mass,  kneeling  in  the  foreground, 
and  perfectly  serene.  The  stones  are  flying  about  him  like 
hail,  and  the  ground  is  covered  with  them  as  thickly  as  if  it 
were  a river  bed..  But  in  the  midst  of  them,  at  the  saint’s 
right  hand,  there  is  a book  lying,  crushed  but  open,  two  or 
three  stones  which  have  torn  one  of  its  leaves  lying  upon  it. 
The  freedom  and  ease  with  which  the  leaf  is  crumpled  is  just 
as  characteristic  of  the  master  as  any  of  the  grander  feat- 
ures ; no  one  but  Tintoret  could  have  so  crushed  a leaf ; 
but  the  idea  is  still  more  characteristic  of  him,  for  the  book 
is  evidently  meant  for  the  Mosaic  History  which  Stephen 
had  just  been  expounding,  and  its  being  crushed  by  the 
stones  -shows  how  the  blind  rage  of  the  Jews  was  violating 
their  own  law  in  the  murder  of  Stephen.  In  the  upper  part 
of  the  picture  are  three  figures, — Christ,  the  Father,  and  St 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


315 


Michael.  Christ  of  course  at  the  right  hand  of  the  Father, 
as  Stephen  saw  him  standing  ; but  there  is  little  dignity  in 
this  part  of  the  conception.  In  the  middle  of  the  picture, 
which  is  also  the  middle  distance,  are  three  or  four  men 
throwing  stones,  with  Tintoret’s  usual  vigor  of  gesture,  and 
behind  them  an  immense  and  confused  crowd ; so  that,  at 
first,  we  wonder  where  St.  Paul  is  ; but  presently  we  observe 
that,  in  the  lront  of  this  crowd,  and  almost  exactly  in  the 
centre  of  the  picture,  there  is  a figure  seated  on  the  ground, 
very  noble  and  quiet,  and  with  some  loose  garments  thrown 
across  its  knees.  It  is  dressed  in  vigorous  black  and  red. 
The  figure  of  the  Father  in  the  sky  above  is  dressed  in  black 
and  red  also,  and  these  two  figures  are  the  centres  of  color 
to  the  whole  design.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  praise  too 
highly  the  refinement  of  conception  which  withdrew  the 
unconverted  St.  Paul  into  the  distance,  so  as  entirely  to 
separate  him  from  the  immediate  interest  of  the  scene,  and 
yet  marked  the  dignity  to  which  he  was  afterward  to  be 
raised,  by  investing  him  with  the  colors  which  occurred 
nowhere  else  in  the  picture  except  in  the  dress  which  veils 
the  form  of  the  Godhead.  It  is  also  to  be  noted  as  an  in- 
teresting example  of  the  value  which  the  painter  put  upon 
color  only  ; another  composer  would  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  exalt  the  future  apostle  by  some  peculiar  dignity  of 
action  or  expression.  The  posture  of  the  figure  is  indeed 
grand,  but  inconspicuous  ; Tintoret  does  not  dejDend  upon 
it,  and  thinks  that  the  figure  is  quite  ennobled  enough  by 
being  made  a key-note  of  color. 

It  is  also  worth  observing  how  boldly  imaginative  is  the 
treatment  which  covers  the  ground  with  piles  of  stones, 
and  yet  leaves  the  martyr  apparently  un wounded.  Another 
painter  would  have  covered  him  with  blood,  and  elaborated 
the  expression  of  pain  upon  his  countenance.  Tintoret 
leaves  us  under  no  doubt  as  to  what  manner  of  death  he  is 
dying  ; he  makes  the  air  hurtle  with  the  stones,  but  he  does 
not  choose  to  make  his  picture  disgusting,  or  even  painful. 
The  face  of  the  martyr  is  serene,  and  exulting  ; and  we 
leave  the  picture,  remembering  only  how  “ he  fell  asleep.” 


316 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


Giovanelli,  Palazzo,  at  the  Ponte  di  Noale.  A fine  example 
of  fifteenth  century  Gothic,  founded  on  the ^Ducal  Palace. 
Giovanni  e Paolo,  Church  of  St.*  Foundation  of,  III.  72. 
An  impressive  church,  though  none  of  its  Gothic  is  com- 
parable with  that  of  the  North,  or  with  that  of  Verona. 
The.  Western  door  is  interesting  as  one  of  the  last  con- 
ditions of  Gothic  design  passing  into  Renaissance,  very 
rich  and  beautiful  of  its  kind,  especially  the  wreath  of  fruit 
and  flowers  which  forms  its  principal  molding.  The  statue 
of  Bartolomeo  Colleone,  in  the  little  square  beside  the 
church,  is  certainly  one  of  the  noblest  works  in  Italy.  I 
have  never  seen  anything  approaching  it  in  animation,  in 
vigor  of  portraiture,  or  nobleness  of  line.  The  reader  will 
need  Lazari’s  Guide  in  making  the  circuit  of  the  church, 
which  is  full  of  interesting  monuments  : but  I wish  espe- 
cially to  direct  his  attention  to  two  pictures,  besides  the  cele- 
brated Peter  Martyr  : namely, 

1.  The  Crucifixion , by  Tintoret ; on  the  wall  of  the  left- 
hand  aisle,  just  before  turning  into  the  transept.  A picture 
fifteen  feet  long  by  eleven  or  twelve  high.  I do  not  be- 
lieve that  either  the  “ Miracle  of  St.  Mark,”  or  the  great 
“ Crucifixion  ” in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  cost  Tintoret 
more  pains  than  this  comparatively  small  work,  which  is 
now  utterly  neglected,  covered  with  filth  and  cobwebs,  and 
fearfully  injured.  As  a piece  of  color,  and  light  and  shade, 
it  is  altogether  marvellous.  Of  all  the  fifty  figures  which 
the  picture  contains,  there  is  not  one  which  in  any  way  in- 
jures or  contends  with  another  ; nay,  there  is  not  a single 
fold  of  garment  or  touch  of  the  pencil  which  could  be 
spared  ; every  virtue  of  Tintoret,  as  a painter,  is  there  in  its 
highest  degree, — color  at  once  the  most  intense  and  the  most 
delicate,  the  utmost  decision  in  the  arrangement  of  masses 
of  light,  and  yet  half  tones  and  modulations  of  endless 
variety  ; and  all  executed  with  a magnificence  of  handling 
which  no  words  are  energetic  enough  to  describe.  I have 

* I have  always  called  this  church,  in  the  text,  simply  “ St.  John  and 
Paul,”  not  Sts.  John  and  Paul,  just  as  the  Venetians  say  San  Giovanni  e 
Paolo,  and  not  Santi  G. , &c. 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


317 


hardly  ever  seen  a picture  in  which  there  was  so  much  de- 
cision, and  so  little  impetuosity,  and  in  which  so  little  was 
conceded  to  haste,  to  accident,  or  to  weakness.  It  is  too  in- 
finite a work  to  be  describable  ; but  among  its  minor  pas- 
sages of  extreme  beauty,  should  especially  be  noticed  the 
manner  in  which  the  accumulated  forms  of  the  human 
body,  which  fill  the  picture  from  end  to  end,  are  prevented 
from  being  felt  heavy,  by  the  grace  and  elasticity  of  two  or 
three  sprays  of  leafage  which  spring  from  a broken  root 
in  the  foreground,  and  rise  conspicuous  in  shadow  against 
an  interstice  filled  by  the  pale  blue,  grey,  and  golden  light 
in  which  the  distant  crowd  is  invested,  the  office  of  this 
foliage  being,  in  an  artistical  point  of  view,  correspondent 
to  that  of  the  trees  set  by  the  sculptors  of  the  Ducal  Palace 
on  its  angles.  But  they  have  a far  more  important  mean- 
ing in  the  picture  than  any  artistical  one.  If  the  spectator 
will  look  carefully  at  the  root  which  I have  called  broken, 
he  will  find  that  in  reality,  it  is  not  broken,  but  cut  ; the 
other  branches  of  the  young  tree  having  lately  been  cut 
away . When  we  remember  that  one  of  the  principal  inci- 
dents in  great  San  Bocco  Crucifixion  is  the  ass  feeding  on 
withered  palm  leaves,  we  shall  be  at  no  loss  to  understand 
the  great  painter’s  purpose  in  lifting  the  branch  of  this 
mutilated  olive  against  the  dim  light  of  the  distant  sky  ; 
while,  close  beside  it,  St.  Joseph  of  Arimathea  drags  along 
the  dust  a white  garment — observe,  the  principal  light  of 
the  picture, — stained  with  the  blood  of  that  King  before 
whom,  five  days  before,  his  crucifiers  had  strewn  their  own 
garments  in  the  way. 

2.  Our  Lady  ivith  the  Camerlenyhi.  (In  the  centre  cliaj)el 
of  the  three  on  the  right  of  the  choir.)  A remarkable  in- 
stance of  the  theoretical  manner  of  representing  Scriptural 
facts,  which,  at  this  time,  as  noted  in  the  second  chapter  of 
this  volume,  was  undermining  the  belief  of  the  facts  them- 
selves. Three  Venetian  chamberlains  desired  to  have  their 
portraits  painted,  and  at  the  same  time  to  express  their  de- 
votion to  the  Madonna  ; to  that  end  they  are  painted  kneel- 
ing before  her,  and  in  order  to  account  for  their  all  three 


18 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


being  together,  and  to  give  a thread  or  cine  to  the  story  of 
the  picture,  they  are  represented  as  the  Three  Magi  ; but 
lest  the  spectator  should  think  it  strange  that  the  Magi 
should  be  in  the  dress  of  Venetian  chamberlains,  the  scene 
is  marked  as  a mere  ideality,  by  surrounding  the  person  of 
the  Virgin  with  saints  who  lived  five  hundred  years  after 
her.  She  has  for  attendants  St.  Theodore,  St.  Sebastian, 
and  St.  Carlo  (query  St.  Joseph).  One  hardly  knows 
whether  most  to  regret  the  spirit  which  was  losing  sight  of 
the  verities  of  religious  history  in  imaginative  abstractions, 
or  to  praise  the  modesty  and  piety  which  desired  rather  to 
be  represented  as  kneeling  before  the  Virgin  than  in  the  dis- 
charge or  among  the  insignia  of  important  offices  of  state. 

As  an  “ Adoration  of  the  Magi,”  the  picture  is,  of  course, 
sufficiently  absurd  : the  St.  Sebastian  leans  back  in  the  cor- 
ner to  be  out  of  the  way  ; the  three  Magi  kneel,  without  the 
slightest  appearance  of  emotion,  to  a Madonna  seated  in  a 
Venetian  loggia  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  three  Venetian 
servants  behind  bear  their  offerings  in  a very  homely  sack, 
tied  up  at  the  mouth.  As  a piece  of  j:>ortraiture  and  artis- 
tical  composition,  the  work  is  altogether  perfect,  perhaps 
the  best  piece  of  Tintoret’s  portrait-painting  in  existence. 
It  is  very  carefully  and  steadily  wrought,  and  arranged  with 
consummate  skill  on  a difficult  plan.  The  canvas  is  a long- 
oblong,  I think  about  eighteen  or  twenty  feet  long,  by  about 
seven  high ; one  might  almost  fancy  the  painter  had  been 
puzzled  to  bring  the  piece  into  use,  the  figures  being  all 
thrown  into  positions  which  a little  diminish  their  height. 
The  nearest  chamberlain  is  kneeling,  the  two  behind  him 
bowing  themselves  slightly,  the  attendants  behind  bowing 
lower,  the  Madonna  sitting,  the  St.  Theodore  sitting  still 
lower  on  the  steps  at  her  feet,  and  the  St.  Sebastian  leaning 
back,  so  that  all  the  lines  of  the  picture  incline  more  or  less 
from  right  to  left  as  they  ascend.  This  slope,  which  gives 
unity  to  the  detached  groups,  is  carefully  exhibited  by  what 
a mathematician  would  call  co-ordinates, — the  upright  pil- 
lars of  the  loggia  and  the  horizontal  clouds  of  the  beautiful 
sky.  The  color  is  very  quiet,  but  rich  and  deep,  the  local 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


319 


tones  being  brought  out  with  intense  force,  and  the  cast 
shadows  subdued,  the  manner  being  much  more  that  of 
Titian  than  of  Tintoret.  The  sky  appears  full  of  light, 
though  it  is  as  dark  as  the  flesh  of  the  faces  ; and  the  forms 
of  its  floating  clouds,  as  well  as  of  the  hills  over  which  they 
rise,  are  drawn  with  a deep  remembrance  of  reality.  There 
are  hundreds  of  pictures  of  Tintoret’ s more  amazing  than 
this,  but  I hardly  know  one  that  I more  love. 

The  reader  ought  especially  to  study  the  sculpture  round 
the  altar  of  the  Capella  del  Rosario,  as  an  example  of  the 
abuse  of  the  sculptor’s  art ; every  accessory  being  labored 
out  with  as  much  ingenuity  and  intense  effort  to  turn  sculpt- 
ure into  painting,  the  grass,  trees,  and  landscape  being  as 
far  realized  as  possible,  and  in  alto-relievo.  These  bas-re- 
liefs are  by  various  artists,  and  therefore  exhibit  the  folly 
of  the  age,  not  the  error  of  an  individual. 

The  following  alphabetical  list  of  the  tombs  in  this  church 
which  are  alluded  to  as  described  in  the  text,  with  references 
to  the  pages  where  they  are  mentioned,  will  save  some 
trouble  : 


Cavalli,  Jacopo,  III.  84. 
Cornaro,  Marco,  III.  14. 
Dolfin,  Giovanni,  III.  80. 
Giustiniani,  Marco,  I.  309. 
Mocenigo,  Giovanni,  III.  91. 
Mocenigo,  Pietro,  III.  91. 


Mocenigo,  Tomaso,  I.  21,  39, 

in.  86. 

Morosini,  Michele,  III.  82. 
Steno,  Michele,  III.  85. 
Vendramin,  Andrea,  I.  40, 
III.  90. 


Giovanni  Grisostomo,  Church  of  St.  One  of  the  most  im- 
portant in  Venice.  It  is  early  Renaissance,  containing  some 
good  sculpture,  but  chiefly  notable  as  containing  a noble 
Sebastian  del  Piornbo,  and  a John  Bellini,  which  a few 
years  hence,  unless  it  be  “ restored,”  will  be  esteemed  one 
of  the  most  precious  pictures  in  Italy,  and  among  the  most 
perfect  in  the  world.  John  Bellini  is  the  only  artist  who 
appears  to  me  to  have  united,  in  equal  and  magnificent 
measures,  justness  of  drawing,  nobleness  of  coloring,  and 
perfect  manliness  of  treatment,  with  the  purest  religious 
feeling.  He  did,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  do  it,  instinc' 


320 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


tively  and  unaffectedly,  what  the  Caracci  only  pretended  to 
do.  Titian  colors  better,  but  has  not  his  piety.  Leonardo 
draws  better,  but  has  not  his  color.  Angelico  is  more 
heavenly,  but  has  not  his  manliness,  far  less  his  powers  of  art, 

Giovanni  Elemosinario,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Ti- 
tian and  a Bonifazio.  Of  no  other  interest. 

Giovanni  in  Beagola,  Church  of  St.  A Gothic  church  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  small,  but  interesting,  and  said  to  con- 
tain some  precious  works  by  Cima  da  Conegliano,  and  one 
by  John  Bellini. 

Giovanni  Novo,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Giovanni,  S.,  Scuola  di.  A fine  example  of  the  Byzantine 
Renaissance,  mixed  with  remnants  of  good  late  Gothic. 
The  little  exterior  cortile  is  sweet  in  feeling,  and  Lazari 
praises  highly  the  work  of  the  interior  staircase. 

Giudecca.  The  crescent-shaped  island  (or  series  of  islands), 
which  forms  the  most  northern  extremity  of  the  city  of 
Venice,  though  separated  by  a broad  channel  from  the  main 
city.  Commonly  said  to  derive  its  name  from  the  number 
of  Jews  who  lived  upon  it ; but  Lazari  derives  it  from  the 
word  “ Judicato,”  in  Venetian  dialect  “Zudega,”  it  having 
been  in  old  time  “ adjudged  ” as  a kind  of  prison  territory 
to  the  more  dangerous  and  turbulent  citizens.  It  is  now 
inhabited  only  by  the  poor,  and  covered  by  desolate  groups 
of  miserable  dwellings,  divided  by  stagnant  canals. 

Its  two  principal  churches,  the  Bedentore  and  St.  Eufe- 
mia,  are  named  in  their  alphabetical  order. 

Giuliano,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Giuseppe  di  Castello,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Paul 
Veronese  : otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Giustina,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Giustiniani  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  now  Albergo  all5 
Europa.  Good  late  fourteenth  century  Gothic,  but  much 
altered. 

Giustiniani,  Palazzo,  next  the  Casa  Foscari,  on  the  Grand 
Canal.  Lazari,  I know  not  on  what  authority,  says  that  this 
palace  was  built  by  the  Giustiniani  family  before  1428.  It 
is  one  of  those  founded  directly  on  the  Ducal  Palace,  to-* 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


321 


gether  with  the  Casa  Foscari  at  its  side  : and  there  could 
have  been  no  doubt  of  their  date  on  this  ground  ; but  it 
would  be  interesting,  after  what  we  have  seen  of  the  prog- 
ress of  the  Ducal  Palace,  to  ascertain  the  exact  year  of  the 
erection  of  any  of  these  imitations. 

This  palace  contains  some  unusually  rich  detached  win- 
dows, full  of  tracery,  of  which  the  profiles  are  given  in  the 
Appendix,  under  the  title  of  the  Palace  of  the  Younger  Fos- 
cari, it  being  popularly  reported  to  have  belonged  to  the 
son  of  the  Doge. 

Giustinian  Lolin,  Palazzo,  on . the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  im- 
portance. 

Grassi  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  now  Albergo  all*  Imper- 
ator  d’  Austria.  Of  no  importance. 

Gregorio,  Church  of  St.,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  An  important 
church  of  the  fourteenth  century,  now  desecrated,  but  still 
interesting.  Its  apse  is  on  the  little  canal  crossing  from 
the  Grand  Canal  to  the  Giudecca,  beside  the  Church  of  the 
Salute,  and  is  very  characteristic  of  the  rude  ecclesiastical 
Gothic  contemporary  with  the  Ducal  Palace.  The  entrance 
to  its  cloisters,  from  the  Grand  Canal,  is  somewhat  later ; a 
noble  square  door,  with  two  windows  on  each  side  of  it,  the 
grandest  examples  in  Venice  of  the  late  window  of  the 
fourth  order. 

The  cloister,  to  which  this  door  gives  entrance,  is  exactly 
contemporary  with  the  finest  work  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
circa  1350.  It  is  the  loveliest  cortile  I know  in  Venice  ; its 
capitals  consummate  in  design  and  execution  ; and  the  low 
wall  on  which  they  stand  showing  remnants  of  sculpture 
unique,  as  far  as  I know,  in  such  application. 

Grimani,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  III.  35. 

There  are  several  other  palaces  in  Venice  belonging  to 
this  family,  but  none  of  any  architectural  interest. 

J 

Jesuiti,  Church  of  the.  The  basest  Eenaissance  ; but  worth 
a visit  in  order  to  examine  the  imitations  of  curtains  in 
white  marble  inlaid  with  green. 

Vol.  HI.— 21 


322 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


It  contains  a Tintoret,  “ The  Assumption,”  which  I have 
not  examined  ; and  a Titian,  “ The  Martyrdom  of  St.  Law- 
rence,” originally,  it  seems  to  me,  of  little  value,  and  now 
having  been  restored,  of  none. 

L 

Labia  Palazzo,  on  the  Canna  Reggio.  Of  no  importance. 

Lazzaro  de’  Mendicanti,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Libreria  Vecchia.  A graceful  building  of  the  central  Renais- 
sance, designed  by  Sansovino,  1536,  and  much  admired  by 
all  architects  of  the  school.  It  was  continued  by  Scamozzi, 
down  the  whole  side  of  St  Mark’s  Place,  adding  another 
story  above  it,  which  modern  critics  blame  as  destroying 
the  “ eurithmia  ; ” never  considering  that  had  the  two  low 
stories  of  the  Library  been  continued  along  the  entire 
length  of  the  Piazza,  they  would  have  looked  so  low  that 
the  entire  dignity  of  the  square  would  have  been  lost.  As 
it  is,  the  Library  is  left  in  its  originally  good  proportions, 
and  the  larger  mass  of  the  Procuratie  Nuove  forms  a more 
majestic,  though  less  graceful,  side  for  the  great  square. 

But  the  real  faults  of  the  building  are  not  in  its  number 
of  stories,  but  in  the  design  of  the  parts.  It  is  one  of  the 
grossest  examples  of  the  base  Renaissance  habit  of  turning 
keystones  into  brackets , throwing  them  out  in  bold  projection 
(not  less  than  a foot  and  a half)  beyond  the  mouldings  of 
the  arch  ; a practice  utterly  barbarous,  inasmuch  as  it  evi- 
dently tends  to  dislocate  the  entire  arch,  if  any  real  weight 
were  laid  on  the  extremity  of  the  keystone  ; and  it  is  also  a 
very  characteristic  example  of  the  vulgar  and  painful  mode 
of  filling  spandrils  by  naked  figures  in  alto-relievo,  leaning 
against  the  arch  on  each  side,  and  appearing  as  if  they  were 
continually  in  danger  of  slipping  off.  Many  of  these  figures 
have,  however,  some  merit  in  themselves  ; and  the  whole 
building  is  graceful  and  effective  of  its  kind.  The  continua- 
tion of  the  Procuratie  Nuove,  at  the  western  extremity  of 
St.  Mark’s  Place  (together  with  various  apartments  in  the 
great  line  of  the  Procuratie  Nuove)  forms  the  “Royal  Pal- 
ace,” the  residence  of  the  Emperor  when  at  Venice.  This 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


323 


building  is  entirely  modern,  built  in  1810,  in  imitation  of 
the  Procuratie  Nuove,  and  on  the  site  of  Sansovino’s  Church 
of  San  Geminiano. 

In  this  range  of  buildings,  including  the  Boyal  Palace, 
the  Procuratie  Nuove,  the  old  Library,  and  the  “Zecca” 
which  is  connected  writh  them  (the  latter  being  an  ugly 
building  of  very  modern  date,  not  worth  notice  architects 
rally),  there  are  many  most  valuable  pictures,  among  which 
I would  especially  direct  attention,  first  to  those  in  the 
Zecca,  namely,  a beautiful  and  strange  Madonna,  by  Bene- 
detto Diana  ; two  noble  Bonifazios  ; and  twro  groups,  by 
Tintoret,  of  the  Provveditori  della  Zecca,  by  no  means  to 
be  missed,  whatever  may  be  sacrificed  to  see  them,  on  ac- 
count of  the  quietness  and  veracity  of  their  unaffected  por- 
traiture, and  the  absolute  freedom  from  all  vanity  either  in 
the  painter  or  in  his  subjects. 

Next,  in  the  “ Antisala  ” of  the  old  Library,  observe  the 
“ Sapienza  ” of  Titian,  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  ; a most 
interesting  work  in  the  light  brilliancy  of  its  color,  and  the 
resemblance  to  Paul  Veronese.  Then,  in  the  great  hall  of 
the  old  Library,  examine  the  two  large  tintorets,  “St.  Mark 
saving  a Saracen  from  Drowning,”  and  the  “ Stealing  of  his 
Body  from  Constantinople,”  both  rude,  but  great  (note  in 
the  latter  the  dashing  of  the  rain  on  the  pavement,  and 
running  of  the  water  about  the  feet  of  the  figures) : then  in 
the  narrow  spaces  between  the  windows,  there  are  some 
magnificent  single  figures  by  Tintoret,  among  the  finest 
things  of  the  kind  in  Italy,  or  in  Europe.  Finally,  in  the 
gallery  of  pictures  in  the  Palazzo  Beale,  among  other  good 
works  of  various  kinds,  are  two  of  the  most  interesting 
Bonifazios  in  Venice,  the  “Children  of  Israel  in  their  jour- 
neyings,”  in  one  of  which,  if  I recollect  right,  the  quails  are 
coming  in  flight  across  a sunset  sky,  forming  one  of  the 
earliest  instances  I know  of  a thoroughly  natural  and  Tur- 
neresque  effect  being  felt  and  rendered  by  the  old  masters. 
The  picture  struck  me  chiefly  from  this  circumstance  ; but, 
the  note-book  in  which  I had  described  it  and  its  companion 
having  been  lost  on  my  way  home,  I cannot  now  give  a more 


324 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


special  account  of  them,  except  that  they  are  long,  full  of 
crowded  figures,  and  peculiarly  light  in  color  and  handling 
as  compared  with  Bonifazio’s  work  in  general. 

Lio,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance,  but  said  to  contain  a 
spoiled  Titian. 

Lio,  Salizzada  di  St.,  windows  in,  II.  251,  256. 

Loredan,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  near  the  Rialto,  IL 
125,  392.  Another  palace  of  this  name,  on  the  Campo  St. 
Stefano,  is  of  no  importance. 

Lorenzo,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Luca,  Church  of  St.  Its  campanile  is  of  very  interesting  and 
quaint  early  Gothic,  and  it  is  said  to  contain  a Paul  Veron- 
ese, “ St.  Luke  and  the  Virgin.”  In  the  little  Campiello  St. 
Luca,  close  by,  is  a very  precious  Gothic  door,  rich  in  brick- 
work, of  the  thirteenth  century  ; and  in  the  foundations  of 
the  houses  on  the  same  side  of  the  square,  but  at  the  other 
end  of  it,  are  traceable  some  shafts  and  arches  closely  re- 
sembling the  work  of  the  Cathedral  of  Murano,  and  evi- 
dently having  once  belonged  to  some  most  interesting  build- 
ing. 

Lucia,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

M 

Maddalena,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria.  Of  no  importance. 

Malipiero,  Pallazzo,  on  the  Campo  St.  M.  Formosa,  facing 
the  canal  at  its  extremity.  A very  beautiful  example  of  the 
Byzantine  Renaissance.  Note  the  management  of  color  in 
its  inlaid  balconies. 

Manfrini,  Palazzo.  The  achitecture  is  of  no  interest ; and 
as  it  is  in  contemplation  to  allow  the  collection  of  pictures 
to  be  sold,  I shall  take  no  note  of  them.  But  even  if  they 
should  remain,  there  are  few  of  the  churches  in  Venice 
where  the  traveller  had  not  better  spend  his  time  than  in 
this  gallery ; as,  with  the  exception  of  Titian’s  “ Entomb- 
ment,” one  or  two  Giorgiones,  and  the  little  John  Bellini 
(St.  Jerome),  the  pictures  are  all  of  a kind  which  may  be 
seen  elsewhere. 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


325 


Mangili  Valmarana,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  im- 
portance. 

Manin,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Manzoni,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  near  the  Church  of  the 
Carita.  A perfect  and  very  rich  example  of  Byzantine  Re- 
naissance : its  warm  yellow  marbles  are  magnificent. 

Marcilian,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Titian,  “ Tobit 
and  the  Angel : ” otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Maria,  Churches  of  Sta.  See  Formosa,  Mater  Domini,  Mira- 
coli,  Orto,  Salute,  and  Zobenigo. 

Marco,  Scuola  di  San,  III.  14. 

Mark,  Church  of  St.,  history  of,  II.  60  ; approach  to,  II.  74 ; 
general  teaching  of,  II.  114,  118  ; measures  of  fa£ade  of,  II. 
128  ; balustrades  of,  II.  243,  246  ; cornices  of,  I.  306  ; horse- 
shoe arches  of,  II.  249  ; entrances  of,  II.  270,  III.  247 ; 
shafts  of,  II.  383  ; base  in  baptistery  of,  I.  286  ; mosaics  in 
atrium  of,  II.  114  ; mosaics  in  cupola  of,  II.  116,  III.  192  ; 
lily  capitals  of,  II.  138  ; Plates  illustrative  of  (Yol.  II.),  VI. 
VII.  figs.  9,  10,  11,  VIII.  figs.  8,  9,  12,  13,  15,  IX.  XI.  fig.  1, 
and  Plate  III.  Vol.  III. 

Mark,  Square  of  St.  (Piazza  di  San  Marco),  anciently  a gar- 
den, II.  62  ; general  effect  of,  II.  69,  118  ; plan  of,  II.  280. 

Martino,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Mater  Domini,  Church  of  St.  Maria.  It  contains  two  impor- 
tant pictures  : one  over  the  second  altar  on  the  right,  “ St. 
Christina,”  by  Vincenzo  Catena,  a very  lovely  example  of 
the  Venetian  religious  school ; and,  over  the  north  transept 
door,  the  “Finding  of  the  Cross,”  by  Tintoret,  a carefully 
painted  and  attractive  picture,  but  by  no  means  a good 
specimen  of  the  master,  as  far  as  regards  power  of  concep- 
tion. He  does  not  seem  to  have  entered  into  his  subject. 
There  is  no  wonder,  no  rapture,  no  entire  devotion  in  any 
of  the  figures.  They  are  only  interested  and  pleased  in  a 
mild  way  ; and  the  kneeling  woman  who  hands  the  nails  to 
a man  stooping  forward  to  receive  them  on  the  right  hand, 
does  so  with  the  air  of  a person  saying,  “ You  had  better 
take  care  of  them  ; they  may  be  wanted  another  time.,, 
This  general  coldness  in  expression  is  much  increased  by 


326 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


the  presence  of  several  figures  on  the  right  and  left,  intro, 
duced  for  the  sake  of  portraiture  merely  ; and  the  reality, 
as  well  as  the  feeling,  of  the  scene  is  destroyed  by  our  see- 
ing one  of  the  youngest  and  weakest  of  the  women  with  a 
huge  cross  lying  across  her  knees,  the  whole  weight  of  it 
resting  upon  her.  As  might  have  been  expected,  where  the 
conception  is  so  languid,  the  execution  is  little  delighted 
in  : it  is  throughout  steady  and  powerful,  but  in  no  place 
aflectionate,  and  in  no  place  impetuous.  If  Tintoret  had 
always  painted  in  this  way,  he  would  have  sunk  into  a mere 
mechanist.  It  is,  however,  a genuine  and  tolerably  well 
preserved  specimen,  and  its  female  figures  are  exceedingly 
graceful ; that  of  St.  Helena  very  queenly,  though  by  no 
means  agreeable  in  feature.  Among  the  male  portraits  on 
the  left  there  is  one  different  from  the  usual  types  which 
occur  either  in  Venetian  paintings  or  Venetian  populace  ; 
it  is  carefully  painted,  and  more  like  a Scotch  Presbyterian 
minister,  than  a Greek.  The  background  is  chielly  com- 
posed of  architecture,  white,  remarkably  uninteresting  in 
color,  and  still  more  so  in  form.  This  is  to  be  noticed  as 
one  of  the  unfortunate  results  of  the  Eenaissance  teaching 
at  this  period.  Had  Tintoret  backed  his  Empress  Helena 
with  Byzantine  architecture,  the  picture  might  have  been 
one  of  the  most  gorgeous  he  ever  painted. 

Mater  Domini,  Camfo  di  Sta.  Maria,  II.  260.  A most  interest- 
ing  little  piazza,  surrounded  by  early  Gothic  houses,  once 
of  singular  beauty  ; the  arcade  at  its  extremity,  of  fourth 
order  windows,  drawn  in  my  folio  work,  is  one  of  the  earli- 
est and  loveliest  of  its  kind  in  Venice  ; and  in  the  houses 
at  the  side  is  a group  of  second  order  windows  with  their 
intermediate  crosses,  all  complete,  and  well  worth  careful 
examination. 

Michele  in  Isola,  Church  of  St.  On  the  island  between  Ven- 
ice and  Murano.  The  little  Cappella  Emiliana  at  the  side 
of  it  has  been  much  admired,  but  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  a building  more  feelingless  or  ridiculous.  It  is  more 
like  a German  summer-house,  or  angle  turret,  than  a chapel, 
and  may  be  briefly  described  as  a bee-hive  set  on  a low 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


327 


hexagonal  tower,  with  dashes  of  stone -work  about  its  win- 
dows like  the  flourishes  of  an  idle  penman. 

The  cloister  of  this  church  is  pretty  ; and  the  attached 
cemetery  is  worth  entering,  for  the  sake  of  feeling  the  strange- 
ness of  the  quiet  sleeping  ground  in  the  midst  of  the  sea. 

Michiel  dalle  Colonne,  Palazzo.  Of  no  importance. 

Minelli,  Palazzo.  In  the  Corte  del  Maltese,  at  St.  Paternian. 
It  has  a spiral  external  staircase,  very  picturesque,  but  of 
the  fifteenth  century  and  without  merit. 

Miracoli,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria  del  The  most  interesting 
and  finished  example  in  Venice  of  the  Byzantine  Renais- 
sance, and  one  of  the  most  important  in  Italy  of  the  cinque- 
cento  style.  All  its  sculptures  should  be  examined  with 
great  care,  as  the  best  possible  examples  of  a bad  style. 
Observe,  for  instance,  that  in  spite  of  the  beautiful  work  on 
the  square  pillars  which  support  the  gallery  at  the  west 
end,  they  have  no  more  architectural  effect  than  two  wooden 
joosts.  The  same  kind  of  failure  in  boldness  of  purpose  ex- 
ists throughout  ; and  the  building  is,  in  fact,  rather  a small 
museum  of  unmeaning,  though  refined  sculpture,  than  a 
piece  of  architecture. 

Its  grotesques  are  admirable  examples  of  the  base  Raphael- 
esque  design  examined  above,  III.  136.  Note  especially  the 
children’s  heads  tied  up  by  the  hair,  in  the  lateral  sculpt- 
ures at  the  top  of  the  altar  steps.  A rude  workman,  who 
could  hardly  have  carved  the  head  at  all,  might  have  allowed 
this  or  any  other  mode  of  expressing  discontent  with  his 
own  doings ; but  the  man  who  could  carve  a child’s  head 
so  perfectly  must  have  been  wanting  in  all  human  feeling, 
to  cut  it  off,  and  tie  it  by  the  hair  to  a vine  leaf.  Observe, 
in  the  Ducal  Palace,  though  far  ruder  in  skill,  the  heads  al- 
ways emerge  from  the  leaves,  they  are  never  tied  to  them. 

Misericordia,  Church  of.  The  church  itself  is  nothing,  and 
contains  nothing  worth  the  traveller’s  time  ; but  the  Albergo 
de’  Confratelli  della  Misericordia  at  its  side  is  a very  inter- 
esting and  beautiful  relic  of  the  Gothic  Renaissance.  Lazari 
says,  “ del  secolo  xiv.  ; ” but  I believe  it  to  be  later.  Its 
traceries  are  very  curious  and  rich,  and  the  sculpture  of  its 


328 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


capitals  very  fine  for  the  late  time.  Close  to  it,  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  canal  which  is  crossed  by  the  wooden 
bridge,  is  one  of  the  richest  Gothic  doors  in  Venice,  remark- 
able for  the  appearance  of  antiquity  in  the  general  design 
and  stiffness  of  its  figures,  though  it  bear  its  date  1505.  Its 
extravagant  crockets  are  almost  the  only  features  which,  but 
for  this  written  date,  would  at  first  have  confessed  its  late- 
ness ; but,  on  examination,  the  figures  will  be  found  as  bad 
and  spiritless  as  they  are  apparently  archaic,  and  completely 
exhibiting  the  Renaissance  palsy  of  imagination. 

The  general  effect  is,  however,  excellent,  the  whole  ar- 
rangement having  been  borrowed  from  earlier  work. 

The  action  of  the  statue  of  the  Madonna,  who  extends  her 
robe  to  shelter  a group  of  diminutive  figures,  representative  of 
the  Society  for  whose  house  the  sculpture  was  executed,  may 
be  also  seen  in  most  of  the  later  Venetian  figures  of  the  Virgin 
which  occupy  similar  situations.  The  image  of  Christ  is 
placed  in  a medallion  on  her  breast,  thus  fully,  though  con- 
ventionally, expressing  the  idea  of  self-support  which  is  so 
often  partially  indicated  by  the  great  religious  painters  in 
their  representations  of  the  infant  Jesus. 

Moise,  Chukch  of  St.,  III.  125.  Notable  as  one  of  the  basest 
examples  of  the  basest  school  of  the  Kenaissance.  It  con- 
tains one  important  picture,  namely  “ Christ  washing  the 
Disciples’  Feet,”  by  Tintoret ; on  the  left  side  of  the  chapel, 
north  of  the  choir.  This  picture  has  been  originally  dark, 
is  now  much  faded — in  parts,  I believe,  altogether  destroyed 
— and  is  hung  in  the  worst  light  of  a chapel,  where,  on  a 
sunny  day  at  noon,  one  could  not  easily  read  without  a 
candle.  I cannot,  therefore,  give  much  information  respect- 
ing it ; but  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  least  successful  of  the 
painter’s  works,  and  both  careless  and  unsatisfactory  in  its 
composition  as  well  as  its  color.  One  circumstance  is  no- 
ticeable, as  in  a considerable  degree  detracting  from  the 
interest  of  most  of  Tintoret’s  representations  of  our  Saviour 
with  his  disciples.  He  never  loses  sight  of  the  fact  that  all 
were  poor,  and  the  latter  ignorant ; and  while  he  never 
paints  a senator,  or  a saint  once  thoroughly  canonized,  ex- 


VENETIAN  INDEX . 


329 


cept  as  a gentleman,  he  is  very  careful  to  paint  the  Apostles, 
in  their  living  intercourse  with  the  Saviour,  in  such  a man- 
ner that  the  spectator  may  see  in  an  instant,  as  the  Pharisee 
did  of  old,  that  they  were  unlearned  and  ignorant  men  ; 
and,  whenever  we  find  them  in  a room,  it  is  always  such  a 
one  as  would  be  inhabited  by  the  lower  classes.  There 
seems  some  violation  of  this  practice  in  the  dais,  or  flight 
of  steps,  at  the  top  of  which  the  Saviour  is  placed  in  the 
present  picture  ; but  we  are  quickly  reminded  that  the 
guests’  chamber  or  upper  room  ready  prepared  was  not 
likely  to  have  been  in  a palace,  by  the  humble  furniture 
upon  the  floor,  consisting  of  a tub  with  a copper  saucepan 
in  it,  a coffee-pot,  and  a pair  of  bellows,  curiously  associated 
with  a symbolic  cup  with  a wafer,  which,  however,  is  an  in- 
jured part  of  the  canvas,  and  may  have  been  added  by  the 
priests.  I am  totally  unable  to  state  what  the  background 
of  the  picture  is  or  has  been  ; and  the  only  point  farther 
to  be  noted  about  it  is  the  solemnity,  which,  in  spite  of 
the  familiar  and  homely  circumstances  above  noticed,  the 
painter  has  given  to  the  scene,  by  placing  the  Saviour,  in 
the  act  of  washing  the  feet  of  Peter,  at  the  top  of  a circle  of 
steps,  on  which  the  other  Apostles  kneel  in  adoration  and 
astonishment. 

Moro,  Palazzo.  See  Othello. 

Morosini,  Palazzo,  near  the  Ponte  dell’  Ospedaletto,  at  San 
Giovannie  Paolo.  Outside  it  is  not  interesting,  though  the 
gateway  shows  remains  of  brickwork  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. Its  interior  court  is  singularly  beautiful  ; the  staircase 
of  early  fourteenth  century  Gothic  has  originally  been  su- 
perb, and  the  window  in  the  angle  above  is  the  most  per- 
fect that  I know  in  Venice  of  the  kind  ; the  lightly  sculpt- 
ured coronet  is  exquisitely  introduced  at  the  top  of  its 
spiral  shaft. 

This  palace  still  belongs  to  the  Morosini  family,  to  whose 
present  representative,  the  Count  Carlo  Morosini,  the  reader 
is  indebted  for  the  note  on  the  character  of  his  ancestors, 
above,  III  213. 

Morosini,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Stefano.  Of  no  importance. 


330 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


N 

Nani-Mocenigo,  Palazzo.  (Now  Hotel  Danieli.)  A glorious 
example  of  the  central  Gothic,  nearly  contemporary  with 
the  finest  part  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  Though  less  impressive 
in  effect  than  the  Casa  Foscari  or  Casa  Bernardo,  it  is  of 
purer  architecture  than  either  : and  quite  unique  in  the 
delicacy  of  the  form  of  the  cusps  in  the  central  group  of 
windows,  which  are  shaped  like  broad  scimitars,  the  upper 
foil  of  the  windows  being  very  small.  If  the  traveller  will 
compare  these  windows  with  the  neighboring  traceries  of 
the  Ducal  Palace,  he  will  easily  perceive  the  peculiarity. 

Nicolo  del  Lido,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Nome  di  Gesu,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

O 

Orfani,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Orto,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria,  dell\  An  interesting  example 
of  Renaissance  Gothic,  the  traceries  of  the  windows  being 
very  rich  and  quaint. 

It  contains  four  most  important  Tintorets  : “ The  Last 
Judgment,”  “ The  Worship  of  the  Golden  Calf,”  “ The  Pre- 
sentation of  the  Virgin,”  and  “Martyrdom  of  St.  Agnes.” 
The  first  two  are  among  his  largest  and  mightiest  works, 
but  grievously  injured  by  damp  and  neglect ; and  unless 
the  traveller  is  accustomed  to  decipher  the  thoughts  in  a 
picture  patiently,  he  need  not  hope  to  derive  any  pleasure 
from  them.  But  no  pictures  will  better  reward  a resolute 
study.  The  following  account  of  the  “Last  Judgment,” 
given  in  the  second  volume  of  “ Modern  Painters,”  will  be 
useful  in  enabling  the  traveller  to  enter  into  the  meaning  of 
the  picture,  but  its  real  power  is  only  to  be  felt  by  patient 
examination  of  it. 

“By  Tintoret  only  has  this  unimaginable  event  (the  Last 
Judgment)  been  grappled  with  in  its  Verity  ; not  typically 
nor  symbolically,  but  as  they  may  see  it  who  shall  not  sleep, 
but  be  changed.  Only  one  traditional  circumstance  he  has 
received,  with  Dante  and  Michael  Angelo,  the  Boat  of  the 
Condemned ; but  the  impetuosity  of  his  mind  bursts  out  even 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


331 


in  the  adoption  of  this  image  ; he  has  not  stopped  at  the 
scowling  ferryman  of  the  one,  nor  at  the  sweeping  blow  and 
demon  dragging  of  the  other,  but,  seized  Hylas  like  by  the 
limbs,  and  tearing  up  the  earth  in  his  agony,  the  victim  is 
dashed  into  his  destruction  ; nor  is  it  the  sluggish  Lethe, 
nor  the  fiery  lake,  that  bears  the  cursed  vessel,  but  the 
oceans  of  the  earth  and  the  wraters  of  the  firmament  gath- 
ered into  one  white,  ghastly  cataract ; the  river  of  the  wrath 
of  God,  roaring  down  into  the  gulf  where  the  world  has 
melted  with  its  fervent  heat,  choked  with  the  ruins  of  na- 
tions, and  the  limbs  of  its  corpses  tossed  out  of  its  whirling, 
like  water-wheels.  Bat-like,  out  of  the  holes  and  caverns 
and  shadows  of  the  earth,  the  bones  gather,  and  the  clay 
heaps  heave,  rattling  and  adhering  into  half-kneaded  an- 
atomies, that  crawl,  and  startle,  and  struggle  up  among  the 
putrid  weeds,  with  the  clay  clinging  to  their  clotted  hair, 
and  their  heavy  eyes  sealed  by  the  earth  darkness  yet,  like 
his  of  old  who  went  his  way  unseeing  to  the  Siloam  Pool ; 
shaking  off  one  by  one  the  dreams  of  the  prison-house, 
hardly  hearing  the  clangor  of  the  trumpets  of  the  armies  of 
of  God,  blinded  yet  more,  as  they  awake,  by  the  white  light 
of  the  new  Heaven,  until  the  great  vortex  of  the  four  winds 
bears  up  their  bodies  to  the  judgment  seat ; the  Firmament 
is  all  full  of  them,  a very  dust  of  human  souls,  that  drifts, 
and  floats,  and  falls  into  the  interminable,  inevitable  light  ; 
the  bright  clouds  are  darkened  with  them  as  with  thick  snow, 
currents  of  atom  life  in  the  arteries  of  heaven,  now  soaring 
up  slowly,  and  higher  and  higher  still,  till  the  eye  and  the 
thought  can  follow  no  farther,  borne  up,  wingless,  by  their 
inward  faith  and  by  the  angel  powers  invisible,  now  hurled 
in  countless  drifts  of  horror  before  the  breath  of  their  con- 
demnation.” 

Note  in  the  opposite  picture  the  way  the  clouds  are 
wrapped  about  in  the  distant  Sinai. 

The  figure  of  the  little  Madonna  in  the  “ Presentation  ” 
should  be  compared  with  Titian’s  in  his  picture  of  the  same 
subject  in  the  Academy.  I prefer  Tin  tore  t’s  infinitely  : and 
note  how  much  finer  is  the  feeling  with  which  Tintoret  has 


332 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


relieved  the  glory  round  her  head  against  the  pure  sky,  than 
that  which  influenced  Titian  in  encumbering  his  distance 
with  architecture. 

The  “ Martyrdom  of  St.  Agnes  ” ivas  a lovely  picture.  It 
has  been  “ restored  ” since  I saw  it. 

Ospedaletto,  Church  of  the.  The  most  monstrous  example 
of  the  Grotesque  Eenaissance  which  there  is  in  Venice  ; the 
sculptures  on  its  fa§ade  representing  masses  of  diseased  fig- 
ures and  swollen  fruit. 

It  is  almost  worth  devoting  an  hour  to  the  successive  ex- 
amination of  five  buildings,  as  illustrative  of  the  last  degra- 
dation of  the  Eenaissance.  San  Moise  is  the  most  clumsy, 
Santa  Maria  Zobenigo  the  most  impious,  St.  Eustachio  the 
most  ridiculous,  the  Ospedaletto  the  most  monstrous,  and 
the  head  at  Santa  Maria  Formosa  the  most  foul. 

Othello,  House  of,  at  the  Carmini.  The  researches  of  Mr. 
Brown  into  the  origin  of  the  play  of  “ Othello  ” have,  I 
think,  determined  that  Shakspeare  wrote  on  definite  his- 
torical grounds  ; and  that  Othello  may  be  in  many  points 
identified  with  Christopher  Moro,  the  lieutenant  of  the 
republic  at  Cyprus,  in  1508.  See  “ Eagguagli  su  Maria 
Sanuto,”  i.  252. 

His  palace  was  standing  till  very  lately,  a Gothic  building 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  of  which  Mr.  Brown  possesses  a 
drawing.  It  is  now  destroyed,  and  a modern  square-win- 
dowed house  built  on  its  site.  A statue,  said  to  be  a por- 
trait of  Moro,  but  a most  paltry  work,  is  set  in  a niche  in 
the  modern  wall. 

P 

Pantaleone,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Paul  Veronese  ; 
otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Paternian,  Church  of  St.  Its  little  leaning  tower  forms  an 
interesting  object  as  the  traveller  sees  it  from  the  narrow 
canal  which  passes  beneath  the  Porte  San  Paternian.  The 
two  arched  lights  of  the  belfry  appear  of  very  early  work- 
manship, probably  of  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. 

Pesaro  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  The  most  powerful  and 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


333 


impressive  in  effect  of  all  the  palaces  of  the  Grotesque  Re- 
naissance. The  heads  upon  its  foundation  are  very  charac- 
teristic of  the  period,  but  there  is  more  genius  in  them  than 
usual.  Some  of  the  mingled  expressions  of  faces  and 
grinning  casques  are  very  clever. 

Piazzetta,  pillars  of,  see  Final  Appendix  under  head  “ Capital.” 
The  two  magnificent  blocks  of  marble  brought  from  St.  Jean 
d’Acre,  which  form  one  of  the  principal  ornaments  of  the 
Piazzetta,  are  Greek  sculpture  of  the  sixth  century,  and 
will  be  described  in  my  folio  work. 

Piet  a,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Pietro,  Church  of  St.,  at  Murano.  Its  pictures,  once  valu- 
able, are  now  hardly  worth  examination,  having  been  spoiled 
by  neglect. 

Pietro,  Di  Castello,  Church  of  St.,  I.  21,  353.  It  is  said  to 
contain  a Paul  Veronese,  and  I suppose  the  so-called  “ Chair 
of  St.  Peter  ” must  be  worth  examining. 

Pisani,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  The  latest  Venetian 
Gothic,  just  passing  into  Renaissance.  The  capitals  of  the 
first  floor  windows  are,  however,  singularly  spirited  and 
graceful,  very  daringly  undercut,  and  worth  careful  exami- 
nation. The  Paul  Veronese,  once  the  glory  of  this  palace, 
is,  I believe,  not  likely  to  remain  in  Venice.  The  other 
picture  in  the  same  room,  the  “ Death  of  Darius,”  is  of  no 
value. 

Pisani,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Stefano.  Late  Renaissance,  and  of  no 
merit,  but  grand  in  its  colossal  proportions,  especially  when 
seen  from  the  narrow  canal  at  its  side,  which  terminated  by 
the  apse  of  the  Church  of  San  Stefano,  is  one  of  the  most’ 
picturesque  and  impressive  little  pieces  of  water  scenery  in 
Venice. 

Polo,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance,  except  as  an  example 
of  the  advantages  accruing  from  restoration.  M.  Lazari  says 
of  it,  “ Before  this  church  was  modernized,  its  principal 
chapel  was  adorned  with  Mosaics,  and  possessed  a pala  of 
silver  gilt,  of  Byzantine  workmanship,  which  is  now  lost.” 

Polo,  Square  of  St.  (Campo  San  Polo.)  A large  and  im 
portant  square,  rendered  interesting  chiefly  by  three  palaces 


334: 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


on  the  side  of  it  opposite  the  church,  of  central  Gothic  (1360), 
and  fine  of  their  time,  though  small.  .One  of  their  capitals 
has  been  given  in  Plate  II.  of  this  volume,  fig.  12.  They 
are  remarkable  as  being  decorated  with  sculptures  of  the 
Gothic  time,  in  imitation  of  Byzantine  ones  ; the  period 
being  marked  by  the  dog-tooth  and  cable  being  used  in- 
stead of  the  dentil  round  the  circles. 

Polo,  Palazzo,  at  San  G.  Grisostomo  (the  house  of  Marco 
Polo),  II.  139.  Its  interior  court  is  full  of  interest,  show- 
ing fragments  of  the  old  building  in  every  direction,  cor- 
nices, windows,  and  doors,  of  almost  every  period,  mingled 
among  modern  rebuilding  and  restoration  of  all  degrees  of 
dignity. 

Porta  Della  Carta,  II.  300. 

Priuli,  Palazzo.  A most  important  and  beautiful  early  Gothic 
Palace,  at  San  Severo  ; the  main  entrance  .is  from  the  Funda- 
mento  San  Severo,  but  the  principal  fa9ade  is  on  the  other 
side,  towards  the  canal.  The  entrance  has  been  grievously 
defaced,  having  had  winged  lions  filling  the  spandrils  of  its 
pointed  arch,  of  which  only  feeble  traces  are  now  left,  the 
fa§ade  has  very  early  fourth  order  windows  in  the  lower 
story,  and  above,  the  beautiful  range  of  fifth  order  windows 
drawn  at  the  bottom  of  Plate  XVIII.  Vol.  II.,  where  the 
heads  of  the  fourth  order  range  are  also  seen  (note  their 
inequality,  the  larger  one  at  the  flank).  This  Palace  has 
two  most  interesting  traceried  angle  windows  also,  which, 
however,  I believe  are  later  than  those  on  the  fa9ade  ; and 
finally,  a rich  and  bold  interior  staircase. 

Procuratie  Nuove,  see  “Libreria”  Vecchia  : A graceful  series 
of  buildings,  of  late  fifteenth  century  design,  forming  the 
northern  side  of  St.  Mark’s  Place,  but  of  no  particular  in- 
terest. 

Q 

Querini,  Palazzo,  now  the  Beccherie,  II.  254,  IH.  235. 

R 

Rvffaellk,  Chiesa  dell’  Angelo.  Said  to  contain  a Bonifazkv 
otherwise  of  no  importance. 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


335 


Redentore,  Church  of  the,  II.  376.  It  contains  three  inter- 
esting John  Bellinis,  and  also,  in  the  sacristy,  a most  beau- 
tiful Paul  Veronese. 

Remer,  Corte  del,  house  in,  II.  251. 

Rezzonico,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  the  Grotesque 
Renaissance  time,  but  less  extravagant  than  usual. 

Rialto,  Bridge  of  the.  The  best  building  raised  in  the  time 
of  the  Grotesque  Renaissance  ; very  noble  in  its  simplicity, 
in  its  proportions,  and  in  its  masonry.  Note  especially  the 
grand  way  in  which  the  oblique  archstones  rest  on  the  hut- 
ments of  the  bridge,  safe,  palpably  both  to  the  sense  and 
eye  : note  also  the  sculpture  of  the  Annunciation  on  the 
southern  side  of  it  ; how  beautifully  arranged,  so  as  to  give 
more  lightness  and  a grace  to  the  arch — the  dove,  flying 
towards  the  Madonna,  forming  the  keystone, — and  thus  the 
whole  action  of  the  figures  being  parallel  to  the  curve  of 
the  arch,  while  all  the  masonry  is  at  right  angles  to  it. 
Note,  finally,  one  circumstance  which  gives  peculiar  firm- 
ness to  the  figure  of  the  angel,  and  associates  itself  with 
the  general  expression  of  strength  in  the  whole  building  ; 
namely  that  the  sole  of  the  advanced  foot  is  set  perfectly 
level,  as  if  placed  on  the  ground,  instead  of  being  thrown 
back  behind  like  a heron’s,  as  in  most  modern  figures  of 
this  kind. 

The  sculptures  themselves  are  not  good  ; but  these  pieces 
of  feeling  in  them  are  very  admirable.  The  two  figures  on 
the  other  side,  St.  Mark  and  St.  Theodore,  are  inferior, 
though  all  by  the  same  sculptor,  Girolamo  Campagna. 

The  bridge  was  built  by  Antonio  da  Ponte,  in  1588.  It 
was  anciently  of  wood,  with  a drawbridge  in  the  centre,  a 
representation  of  which  may  be  seen  in  one  of  Carpaccio  s 
pictures  at  the  Accademia  delle  Belle  Arti : and  the  traveller 
should  observe  that  the  interesting  effect,  both  of  this  and 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  depends  in  great  part  on  their  both 
being  more  than  bridges  ; the  one  a covered  passage,  the 
other  a row  of  shops,  sustained  on  an  arch.  No  such  effect 
can  be  produced  merely  by  the  masonry  of  the  roadway  it* 
self. 


336 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE \ 


Rio  del  Palazzo,  II.  281. 

Rocco,  Campiello  di  San,  windows  in,  II.  258. 

Rocco,  Church  of  St.  Notable  only  for  the  most  interesting 
pictures  by  Tintoret  which  it  contains,  namely  : 

1.  San  Hocco  before  the  Pope . (On  the  left  of  the  door 
as  we  enter.)  A delightful  picture  in  his  best  manner,  but 
not  much  labored  ; and,  like  several  other  pictures  in  this 
church,  it  seems  to  me  to  have  been  executed  at  some  period 
of  the  painter’s  life  when  he  was  either  in  ill  health,  or  else 
had  got  into  a mechanical  way  of  painting,  from  having 
made  too  little  reference  to  nature  for  a long  time.  There 
is  something  stiff  and  forced  in  the  white  draperies  on  both 
sides,  and  a general  character  about  the  whole  which  I can 
feel  better  than  I can  describe  ; but  which,  if  I had  been 
the  painter’s  physician,  would  have  immediately  caused  me 
to  order  him  to  shut  up  his  painting-room,  and  take  a voy- 
age to  the  Levant,  and  back  again.  The  figure  of  the  Pope 

is,  however,  extremely  beautiful,  and  is  not  unworthy,  in  its 
jewelled  magnificence,  here  dark  against  the  sky,  of  com- 
parison with  the  figure  of  the  high  priest  in  the  “ Presenta- 
tion,” in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco. 

2.  Annunciation.  (On  the  other  side  of  the  door,  on  en- 
tering.) A most  disagreeable  and  dead  picture,  having  all 
the  faults  of  the  age,  and  none  of  the  merits  of  the  painter. 
It  must  be  a matter  ae  future , investigation  to  me,  what 
could  cause  the  fall  of  his  mind  from  a conception  so  great 
and  so  fiery  as  that  of  the  “ Annunciation  ” in  the  Scuola 
di  San  Rocco,  to  this  miserable  reprint  of  an  idea  worn  out 
centuries  before.  One  of  the  most  inconceivable  things  in 

it,  considered  as  the  work  of  Tintoret,  is  that  where  the 
angel’s  robe  drifts  away  behind  his  limb,  one  cannot  tell 
by  the  character  of  the  outline,  or  by  the  tones  of  the 
color,  whether  the  cloud  comes  in  before  the  robe,  or 
whether  the  robe  cuts  upon  the  cloud.  The  Virgin  is 
uglier  than  that  of  the  Scuola,  and  not  half  so  real ; and 
the  draperies  are  crumpled  in  the  most  commonplace  and 
ignoble  folds.  It  is  a picture  well  worth  study,  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  extent  to  which  the  greatest  mind  may  be  be- 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


337 


trayed  by  the  abuse  of  its  powers,  and  the  neglect  of  its 
proper  food  in  the  study  of  nature. 

3.  Pool  of  Bethesda.  (On  the  right  side  of  the  church,  in 
its  centre,  the  lowest  of  the  two  pictures  which  occupy  the 
wall.)  A noble  work,  but  eminently  disagreeable,  as  must 
be  all  pictures  of  this  subject ; and  with  the  same  character 
in  it  of  un definable  want,  which  I have  noticed  in  the  two 
preceding  works.  The  main  figure  in  it  is  the  cripple,  who 
has  taken  up  his  bed  ; but  the  whole  effect  of  this  action  is 
lost  by  his  not  turning  to  Christ,  but  flinging  it  on  his 
shoulder  like  a triumphant  porter  with  a huge  load  ; and 
the  corrupt  Renaissance  architecture,  among  which  the  fig- 
ures are  crowded,  is  both  ugly  in  itself,  and  much  too  small 
for  them.  It  is  worth  noticing,  for  the  benefit  of  persons 
who  find  fault  with  the  perspective  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites, 
that  the  perspective  of  the  brackets  beneath  these  pillars  is 
utterly  absurd  ; and  that,  in  fine,  the  presence  or  absence 
of  perspective  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  merits  of  a great 
picture  : not  that  the  perspective  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites  is 
false  in  any  case  that  I have  examined,  the  objection  being 
just  as  untenable  as  it  is  ridiculous. 

4.  San  Rocco  in  the  Desert.  (Above  the  last-named  pict- 
ure.) A single  recumbent  figure  in  a not  very  interesting 
landscape,  deserving  less  attention  than  a picture  of  St. 
Martin  just  opposite  to  it, — a noble  and  knightly  figure  on 
horseback  by  Pordenone,  to  which  I cannot  pay  a greater 
compliment  than  by  saying  that  I was  a considerable  time 
in  doubt  whether  or  not  it  was  another  Tintoret. 

5.  San  Rocco  in  the  Hospital.  (On  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  altar.)  There  are  four  vast  pictures  by  Tintoret  in  the 
dark  choir  of  this  church,  not  only  important  by  their  size 
(each  being  some  twenty-five  feet  long  by  ten  feet  high), 
but  also  elaborate  compositions  ; and  remarkable,  one  for  its 
extraordinary  landscape,  and  the  other  as  the  most  studied 
picture  in  which  the  painter  has  introduced  horses  in  vio- 
lent action.  In  order  to  show  what  waste  of  human  mind 
there  is  in  these  dark  churches  of  Venice,  it  is  worth  re- 
cording that,  as  I was  examining  these  pictures,  there  came 

Vol.  IIL— 22 


338 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


in  a party  of  eighteen  German  tourists,  not  hurried,  nor 
jesting  among  themselves  as  large  parties  often  do,  but  pa- 
tiently submitting  to  their  cicerone,  and  evidently  desirous 
of  doing  their  duty  as  intelligent  travellers.  They  sat  down 
for  a long  time  on  the  benches  of  the  nave,  looked  a little 
at  the  “ Pool  of  Bethesda,”  walked  up  into  the  choir  and 
there  heard  a lecture  of  considerable  length  from  their 
valet-de-place  upon  some  subject  connected  with  the  altar 
itself,  which,  being  in  German,  I did  not  understand  ; they 
then  turned  and  went  slowly  out  of  the  church,  not  one  of 
the  whole  eighteen  ever  giving  a single  glance  to  any  of  the 
four  Tintorets,  and  only  one  of  them,  as  far  as  I saw,  even 
raising  his  eyes  to  the  walls  on  which  they  hung,  and  im- 
mediately withdrawing  them,  with  a jaded  and  nonchalant 
expression  easily  interpretable  into  “ Nothing  but  old  black 
pictures.”  The  two  Tintorets  above  noticed,  at  the  end  of 
the  church,  were  passed  also  without  a glance  ; and  this 
neglect  is  not  because  the  pictures  have  nothing  in  them 
capable  of  arresting  the  popular  mind,  but  simply  because 
they  are  totally  in  the  dark,  or  confused  among  easier  and 
more  prominent  objects  of  attention.  This  picture,  which 
I have  called  “ St.  Rocco  in  the  Hospital,”  shows  him,  I 
suppose,  in  his  general  ministrations  at  such  places,  and  is 
one  of  the  usual  representations  of  a disgusting  subject  from 
which  neither  Orcagna  nor  Tin  tore  t seems  ever  to  have 
shrunk.  It  is  a very  noble  picture,  carefully  composed  and 
highly  wrought ; but  to  me  gives  no  pleasure,  first,  on  ac- 
count of  its  subject,  secondly,  on  account  of  its  dull  brown 
tone  all  over, — it  being  impossible,  or  nearly  so,  in  such  a 
scene,  and  at  all  events  inconsistent  with  its  feeling,  to  in- 
troduce vivid  color  of  any  kind.  So  it  is  a brown  study  of 
diseased  limbs  in  a close  room. 

6.  Cattle  Piece . (Above  the  picture  last  described.)  I 
can  give  no  other  name  to  this  picture,  whose  subject  I can 
neither  guess  nor  discover,  the  picture  being  in  the  dark, 
and  the  guide-books  leaving  me  in  the  same  position,  All 
I can  make  out  of  it  is,  that  there  is  a noble  landscape  wTith 
cattle  and  figures,  It  seems  to  me  the  best  landscape  of 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


339 


Tintoret’s  in  Venice,  except  the  “ Flight  into  Egypt ; ” and 
is  even  still  more  interesting  from  its  savage  character,  the 
principal  trees  being  pines,  something  like  Titian’s  in  his 
“ St.  Francis  receiving  the  Stigmata,”  and  chestnuts  on  the 
slopes  and  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills  ; the  animals  also  seem 
first-rate.  But  it  is  too  high,  too  much  faded,  and  too  much 
in  the  dark  to  be  made  out.  It  seems  never  to  have  been 
rich  in  color,  rather  cool  and  grey,  and  very  full  of  light. 

7.  Finding  of  Body  of  San  Bocco . (On  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  altar.)  An  elaborate,  but  somewhat  confused  picture, 
with  a flying  angel  in  a blue  drapery  ; but  it  seemed  to  me 
altogether  uninteresting,  or  perhaps  requiring  more  study 
than  I was  able  to  give  it. 

8.  San  Bocco  in  Campo  d’  Armata . So  this  picture  is 
called  by  the  sacristan.  I could  see  no  San  Bocco  in  it ; 
nothing  but  a wild  group  of  horses  and  warriors  in  the  most 
magnificent  confusion  of  fall  and  flight  ever  painted  by  man. 
They  seem  all  dashed  different  ways  as  if  by  a whirlwind  ; 
and  a whirlwind  there  must  be,  or  a thunderbolt,  behind 
them,  for  a huge  tree  is  tom  up  and  hurled  into  the  air  be- 
yond the  central  figure,  as  if  it  were  a shivered  lance.  Two 
of  the  horses  meet  in  the  midst,  as  if  in  a tournament ; but 
in  madness  of  fear,  not  in  hostility  ; on  the  horse  to  the 
right  is  a standard-bearer,  who  stoops  as  from  some  foe  be- 
hind him,  with  the  lance  laid  across  his  saddle-bow,  level, 
and  the  flag  stretched  out  behind  him  as  he  flies,  like  the 
sail  of  a ship  drifting  from  its  mast ; the  central  horseman, 
who  meets  the  shock,  of  storm,  or  enemy,  whatever  it  be,  is 
hurled  backwards  from  his  seat,  like  a stone  from  a sling  ; 
and  this  figure  with  the  shattered  tree  trunk  behind  it,  is 
the  most  noble  part  of  the  picture.  There  is  another  grand 
horse  on  the  right,  however,  also  in  full  action.  Two  gi- 
gantic figures  on  foot,  on  the  left,  meant  to  be  nearer  than 
the  others,  would,  it  seems  to  me,  have  injured  the  picture, 
had  they  been  clearly  visible  ; but  time  has  reduced  them 
to  perfect  subordination. 

Bocco,  Scuola  di  San,  bases  of,  I.  287,  427  ; soffit  ornaments 
of,  L 329.  An  interesting  building  of  the  early  Benaissance 


340 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, . 


(1517),  passing  into  Roman  Renaissance.  The  wreaths  of 
leafage  about  its  shafts  are  wonderfully  delicate  and  fine, 
though  misplaced. 

As  regards  the  pictures  which  it  contains,  it  is  one  of  the 
three  most  precious  buildings  in  Italy  ; buildings,  I mean, 
consistently  decorated  with  a series  of  paintings  at  the  time 
of  their  erection,  and  still  exhibiting  that  series  in  its  origi- 
nal order.  I suppose  there  can  be  little  question,  but  that 
the  three  most  important  edifices  of  this  kind  in  Italy  are 
the  Sistine  Chapel,  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  and  the  Scuola 
di  San  Rocco  at  Venice  : the  first  is  painted  by  Michael 
Angelo  ; the  second  by  Orcagna,  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  Pietro 
Laurati,  and  several  other  men  whose  works  are  as  rare  as 
they  are  precious  ; and  the  third  by  Tintoret. 

Whatever  the  traveller  may  miss  in  Venice,  he  should 
therefore  give  unembarrassed  attention  and  unbroken  time 
to  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  ; and  I shall,  accordingly,  num- 
ber the  pictures,  and  note  in  them,  one  by  one,  what  seemed 
to  me  most  worthy  of  observation. 

There  are  sixty-two  in  all,  but  eight  of  these  are  merely 
of  children  or  children’s  heads,  and  two  of  unimportant 
figures.  The  number  of  valuable  pictures  is  fifty-two  ; ar- 
ranged on  the  walls  and  ceilings  of  three  rooms,  so  badly 
lighted,  in  consequence  of  the  admirable  arrangements  of 
the  Renaissance  architect,  that  it  is  only  in  the  early  morn- 
ing that  some  of  the  pictures  can  be  seen  at  all,  nor 
can  they  ever  be  seen  but  imperfectly.  They  were  all 
painted,  however,  for  their  places  in  the  dark,  and,  as 
compared  with  Tintoret’s  other  works,  are  therefore,  for  the 
most  part,  nothing  more  than  vast  sketches,  made  to  pro- 
duce, under  a certain  degree  of  shadow,  the  effect  of  finished 
pictures.  Their  treatment  is  thus  to  be  considered  as  a 
kind  of  scene-painting  ; differing  from  ordinary  scene-paint- 
ing only  in  this,  that  the  effect  aimed  at  is  not  that  of  a 
natural  scene  but  a perfect  picture . They  differ  in  this  re- 
spect from  all  other  existing  works  ; for  there  is  not,  as  far 
as  I know,  any  other  instance  in  which  a great  master  has 
consented  to  work  for  a room  plunged  into  almost  total 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


341 


obscurity.  It  is  probable  that  none  but  Tinfcoret  would 
have  undertaken  the  task,  and  most  fortunate  that  he  was 
forced  to  it.  For  in  this  magnificent  scene-painting  we 
have,  of  course,  more  wonderful  examples,  both  of  his 
handling,  and  knowledge  of  effect,  than  could  ever  have 
been  exhibited  in  finished  pictures  ; while  the  necessity  of 
doing  much  with  few  strokes  keeps  his  mind  so  completely 
on  the  stretch  throughout  the  work  (while  yet  the  velocity 
of  production  prevented  his  being  wearied),  that  no  other 
series  of  his  works  exhibits  powers  so  exalted.  On  the 
other  hand,  owing  to  the  velocity  and  coarseness  of  the 
painting,  it  is  more  liable  to  injury  through  drought  or 
damp  ; and,  as  the  walls  have  been  for  years  continually 
running  down  with  rain,  and  what  little  sun  gets  into  the 
place  contrives  to  fall  all  day  right  on  one  or  other  of  the 
pictures,  they  are  nothing  but  wrecks  of  what  they  were  ; 
and  the  ruins  of  paintings  originally  coarse  are  not  likely 
ever  to  be  attractive  to  the  public  mind.  Twenty  or  thirty 
years  ago  they  were  taken  down  to  be  retouched  ; but  the 
man  to  whom  the  task  was  committed  providentially  died, 
and  only  one  of  them  was  spoiled.  I have  found  traces  of 
his  work  upon  another,  but  not  to  an  extent  very  seriously 
destructive.  The  rest  of  the  sixty-two,  or,  at  any  rate,  all 
that  are  in  the  upper  room,  appear  entirely  intact. 

Although,  as  compared  with  his  other  works,  they  are  all 
very  scenic  in  execution,  there  are  great  differences  in  their 
degrees  of  finish ; and,  curiously  enough,  some  on  the  ceil- 
ings and  others  in  the  darkest  places  in  the  lower  room  are 
very  nearly  finished  pictures,  while  the  “ Agony  in  the  Gar 
den,”  which  is  in  one  of  the  best  lights  in  the  upper  room, 
appears  to  have  been  painted  in  a couple  of  hours  with  a 
broom  for  a brush. 

For  the  traveller’s  greater  convenience,  I shall  give  a 
rude  plan  of  the  arrangement,  and  list  of  the  subjects, 
of  each  group  of  pictures  before  examining  them  in 
detaiL 


342 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


First  Group.  On  the  walls  of  the  room  on  the  ground  floor. 


2 Z 3 


* ~~S 


8 


1.  Annunciation.  2.  Adoration  of  Magi.  3.  Flight  into  Egypt.  4.  Massacre  of 
Innocents.  5.  The  Magdalen.  6.  St.  Mary  of  Egypt.  7.  Circumcision.  8.  Assump- 
tion of  Virgin.  At  the  turn  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the  upper  room  : 9.  Visitation. 

1.  The  Annunciation . This,  which  first  strikes  the  eye, 
is  a very  just  representative  of  the  whole  group,  the  execu- 
tion being  carried  to  the  utmost  limits  of  boldness  consist- 
ent with  completion.  It  is  a well-known  picture,  and  need 
not  therefore  be  specially  described,  but  one  or  two  points 
in  it  require  notice.  The  face  of  the  Virgin  is  very  disagreea- 
ble to  the  spectator  from  below,  giving  the  idea  of  a woman 
about  thirty,  who  had  never  been  handsome.  If  the  face 
is  untouched,  it  is  the  only  instance  I have  ever  seen  of 
Tintoret’s  failing  in  an  intended  effect,  for,  when  seen  near, 
the  face  is  comely  and  youthful,  and  expresses  only  sur- 
prise, instead  of  the  pain  and  fear  of  which  it  bears  the 
aspect  in  the  distance.  I could  not  get  near  enough  to  see 
whether  it  had  been  retouched.  It  looks  like  Tintoret’s 
work,  though  rather  hard  ; but,  as  there  are  unquestionable 
marks  in  the  retouching  of  this  picture,  it  is  possible  that 
some  slight  restoration  of  lines  supposed  to  be  faded,  en- 
tirely alter  the  distant  expression  of  the  face.  One  of  the 
evident  pieces  of  repainting  is  the  scarlet  of  the  Madonna’s 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


343 


lap,  which  is  heavy  and  lifeless.  A far  more  injurious  one 
is  the  strip  of  sky  seen  through  the  doorway  by  which  the 
angel  enters,  which  has  originally  been  of  the  deep  golden 
color  of  the  distance  on  the  left,  and  which  the  blundering 
restorer  has  daubed  over  with  whitish  blue,  so  that  it  looks 
like  a bit  of  the  wall ; luckily  he  has  not  touched  the  out- 
lines of  the  angel’s  black  wings,  on  which  the  whole  expres- 
sion of  the  picture  depends.  This  angel  and  the  group  of 
small  cherubs  above  form  a great  swinging  chain,  of  which 
the  dove  representing  the  Holy  Spirit  forms  the  bend. 
The  angels  in  their  flight  seem  to  be  attached  to  this  as  the 
train  of  fire  is  to  a rocket ; all  of  them  appearing  to  have 
swooped  down  with  the  swiftness  of  a falling  star. 

2.  Adoration  of  the  Magi.  The  most  finished  picture  in 
the  Scuola,  except  the  “ Crucifixion,”  and  perhaps  the  most 
delightful  of  the  whole.  It  unites  every  source  of  pleasure 
that  a picture  can  possess  : the  highest  elevation  of  princi- 
pal subject,  mixed  with  the  lowest  detail  of  picturesque  in- 
cident ; the  dignity  of  the  highest  ranks  of  men,  opposed 
to  the  simplicity  of  the  lowest ; the  quietness  and  serenity 
of  an  incident  in  cottage  life,  contrasted  with  the  turbu- 
lence of  troops  of  horsemen  and  the  spiritual  power  of 
angels.  The  placing  of  the  two  doves  as  principal  points 
of  light  in  the  front  of  the  picture,  in  order  to  remind  the 
spectator  of  the  poverty  of  the  mother  whose  child  is  re^ 
ceiving  the  offerings  and  adoration  of  three  monarchs,  is 
one  of  Tintoret’s  master  touches  ; the  whole  scene,  indeed, 
is  conceived  in  his  happiest  manner.  Nothing  can  be  at 
once  more  humble  or  more  dignified  than  the  bearing  of 
the  kings  ; and  there  is  a sweet  reality  given  to  the  whole 
incident  by  the  Madonna’s  stooping  forward  and  lifting  her 
hand  in  admiration  of  the  vase  of  gold  which  has  been  set 
before  the  Christ,  though  she  does  so  with  such  gentleness 
and  quietness  that  her  dignity  is  not  in  the  least  injured 
by  the  simplicity  of  the  action.  As  if  to  illustrate  the 
means  by  which  the  Wise  men  were  brought  from  the  East, 
the  whole  picture  is  nothing  but  a large  star,  of  which 
Christ  is  the  centre  ; all  the  figures,  even  the  timbers  of 


344 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


the  roof,  radiate  from  the  small  bright  figure  on  which  the 
countenances  of  the  flying  angels  are  bent,  the  star  itself, 
gleaming  through  the  timbers  above,  being  quite  subordi- 
nate. The  composition  would  almost  be  too  artificial  were 
it  not  broken  by  the  luminous  distance  where  the  troop  of 
horsemen  are  waiting  for  the  kings.  These,  with  a dog 
running  at  full  speed,  at  once  interrupt  the  symmetry  of 
the  lines,  and  form  a point  of  relief  from  the  over  concern 
tration  of  all  the  rest  of  the  action. 

3.  Flight  into  Egypt  One  of  the  principal  figures  here 
is  the  donkey.  I have  never  seen  any  of  the  nobler  animals 
— lion,  or  leopard,  or  horse,  or  dragon — made  so  sublime  as 
this  quiet  head  of  the  domestic  ass,  chiefly  owing  to  the 
grand  motion  in  the  nostril  and  writhing  in  the  ears.  The 
space  of  the  picture  is  chiefly  occupied  by  lovely  landscape, 
and  the  Madonna  and  St.  Joseph  are  pacing  their  way 
along  a shady  path  upon  the  banks  of  a river  at  the  side 
of  the  picture.  I had  not  any  conception,  until  I got 
near,  how  much  pains  had  been  taken  with  the  Virgin’s 
head  ; its  expression  is  as  sweet  and  as  intense  as  that  of 
any  of  Raffaelle’s,  its  reality  far  greater.  The  painter 
seems  to  have  intended  that  everything  should  be  subordi- 
nate to  the  beauty  of  this  single  head  ; and  the  work  is  a 
wonderful  proof  of  the  way  in  which  a vast  field  of  canvas 
may  be  made  conducive  to  the  interest  of  a single  figure. 
This  is  partly  accomplished  by  slightness  of  painting,  so 
that  on  close  examination,  while  there  is  everything  to  as- 
tonish in  the  masterly  handling  and  purpose,  there  is  not 
much  perfect  or  very  delightful  painting  ; in  fact,  the  two 
figures  are  treated  like  the  living  figures  in  a scene  at  the 
theatre,  and  finished  to  perfection,  while  the  landscape  is 
painted  as  hastily  as  the  scenes,  and  with  the  same  kind  of 
opaque  size  color.  It  has,  however,  suffered  as  much  as 
any  of  the  series,  and  it  is  hardly  fair  to  judge  of  its  tones 
and  colors  in  its  present  state. 

4.  Massacre  of  the  Innocents . The  following  account  of 
this  picture,  given  in  <c  Modern  Painters,”  may  be  useful  to 
the  traveller,  and  is  therefore  here  repeated.  “I  have  be- 


VENETIAN  INDEX . 


345 


fore  alluded  to  the  painfulness  of  Kaffaelle’s  treatment  of 
the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents.  Fuseli  affirms  of  it,  that, 
‘in  dramatic  gradation  he  disclosed  all  the  mother  through 
every  image  of  pity  and  terror/  If  this  be  so,  I think  the 
philosophical  spirit  has  prevailed  over  the  imaginative.  The 
imagination  never  errs  ; it  sees  all  that  is,  and  all  the  rela- 
tions and  bearings  of  it ; but  it  would  not  have  confused  the 
mortal  frenzy  of  maternal  terror,  with  various  develop- 
ment of  maternal  character.  Fear,  rage,  and  agony,  at 
their  utmost  pitch,  sweep  away  all  character : humanity  it- 
self would  be  lost  in  maternity,  the  woman  would  become 
the  mere  personification  of  animal  fury  or  fear.  For  this 
reason  all  the  ordinary  representations  of  this  subject  are, 
I think,  false  and  cold : the  artist  has  not  heard  the  shrieks, 
nor  mingled  with  the  fugitives  ; he  has  sat  down  in  his 
study  to  convulse  features  methodically,  and  philosophize 
over  insanity.  Not  so  Tintoret.  Knowing,  or  feeling,  that 
the  expression  of  the  human  face  was,  in  such  circum- 
stances, not  to  be  rendered,  and  that  the  effort  could  only 
end  in  an  ugly  falsehood,  he  denies  himself  all  aid  from  the 
features,  he  feels  that  if  he  is  to  place  himself  or  us  in  the 
midst  of  that  maddened  multitude,  there  can  be  no  time 
allowed  for  watching  expression.  Still  less  does  he  depend 
on  details  of  murder  or  ghastliness  of  death  ; there  is  no 
blood,  no  stabbing  or  cutting,  but  there  is  an  awful  substi- 
tute for  these  in  the  chiaroscuro.  The  scene  is  the  outer 
vestibule  of  a palace,  the  slippery  marble  floor  is  fearfully 
barred  across  by  sanguine  shadows,  so  that  our  eyes  seem 
to  become  bloodshot  and  strained  with  strange  horror  and 
deadly  vision  ; a lake  of  life  before  them,  like  the  burning 
seen  of  the  doomed  Moabite  on  the  water  that  came  by  the 
way  of  Edom  : a huge  flight  of  stairs,  without  parapet, 
descends  on  the  left  ; down  this  rush  a crowd  of  women 
mixed  with  the  murderers  ; the  child  in  the  arms  of  one 
has  been  seized  by  the  limbs,  she  hurls  herself  over  the  edge , 
and  falls  head  downmost,  dragging  the  child  out  of  the  grasp 
by  her  weight  ; - she  will  be  dashed  dead  in  a second  : — 
close  to  us  is  the  great  struggle  ; a heap  of  the  mothers, 


346 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


entangled  in  one  mortal  writhe  with  each  other  and  the 
swords ; one  of  the  murderers  dashed  down  and  crushed 
beneath  them,  the  sword  of  another  caught  by  the  blade 
and  dragged  at  by  a woman’s  naked  hand  ; the  youngest 
and  fairest  of  the  women,  her  child  just  torn  away  from  a 
death  grasp,  and  clasped  to  her  breast  with  the  grip  of  a 
steel  vice,  falls  backwards,  helpless  over  the  heap,  right  on 
the  sword  points  ; all  knit  together  and  hurled  down  in 
one  hopeless,  frenzied,  furious  abandonment  of  body  and 
soul  in  the  effort  to  save.  Far  back,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs,  there  is  something  in  the  shadow  like  a heap  of 
clothes.  It  is  a woman,  sitting  quiet, — quite  quiet, — still 
as  any  stone  ; she  looks  down  steadfastly  on  her  dead 
child,  laid  along  on  the  floor  before  her,  and  her  hand  is 
pressed  softly  upon  her  brow.” 

I have  nothing  to  add  to  the  above  description  of  this 
picture,  except  that  I believe  there  may  have  been  some 
change  jn  the  color  of  the  shadow  that  crosses  the  pave- 
ment. The  chequers  of  the  pavements  are,  in  the  light, 
golden  white  and  pale  grey  ; in  the  shadow,  red  and  dark 
grey,  the  white  in  the  sunshine  becoming  red  in  the  shadow. 
I formerly  supposed  that  this  was  meant  to  give  greater 
horror  to  the  scene,  and  it  is  very  like  Tintoret  if  it  be  so ; 
but  there  is  a strangeness  and  discordance  in  it  which 
makes  me  suspect  the  colors  may  have  changed. 

5.  The  Magdalen , This  and  the  picture  opposite  to  it, 
“St.  Mary  of  Egypt,”  have  been  painted  to  fill  up  narrow 
spaces  between  the  windows  which  were  not  large  enough 
to  receive  compositions,  and  yet  in  which  single  figures 
would  have  looked  awkwardly  thrust  into  the  corner, 
Tintoret  has  made  these  spaces  as  large  as  possible  by 
filling  them  with  landscapes,  which  are  rendered  interest- 
ing by  the  introduction  of  single  figures  of  very  small  size. 
He  has  not,  however,  considered  his  task,  of  making  a 
small  piece  of  wainscot  look  like  a large  one,  worth  the 
stretch  of  his  powers,  and  has  painted  these  two  landscapes 
just  as  carelessly  and  as  fast  as  an  upholsterer’s  journeyman 
finishing  a room  at  a railroad  hotel.  The  color  is  for  the 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


34 


most  part  opaque,  and  dashed  or  scrawled  on  in  the 
manner  of  a scene-painter  ; and  as  during  the  whole  morn- 
ing the  sun  shines  upon  the  one  picture,  and  during  the 
afternoon  upon  the  other,  hues,  which  were  originally  thin 
and  imperfect,  are  now  dried  in  many  places  into  mere 
dirt  upon  the  canvas.  With  all  these  drawbacks  the 
pictures  are  of  very  high  interest,  for  although,  as  I said, 
hastily  and  carelessly,  they  are  not  languidly  painted  ; on 
the  contrary,  he  has  been  in  his  hottest  and  grandest  tem- 
per ; and  in  this  first  one  (“Magdalen”)  the  laurel  tree, 
with  its  leaves  driven  hither  and  thither  among  flakes  of 
fiery  cloud,  has  been  probably  one  of  the  greatest  achieve- 
ments that  his  hand  performed  in  landscape  : its  roots  are 
entangled  in  underwood  ; of  which  every  leaf  seems  to  be 
articulated,  yet  all  is  as  wild  as  if  it  had  grown  there  in- 
stead of  having  been  painted  ; there  has  been  a mountain 
distance,  too,  and  a sky  of  stormy  light,  of  which  I in- 
finitely regret  the  loss,  for  though  its  masses  of  light  are 
still  discernible,  its  variety  of  hue  is  all  sunk  into  a with- 
ered brown.  There  is  a curious  piece  of  execution  in  the 
striking  of  the  light  upon  a brook  which  runs  under  the 
roots  of  the  laurel  in  the  foreground : these  roots  are 
traced  in  shadow  against  the  bright  surface  of  the  water  ; 
another  painter  would  have  drawn  the  light  first,  and  drawn 
the  dark  roots  over  it.  Tintoret  has  laid  in  a brown  ground 
which  he  has  left  for  the  roots,  and  painted  the  water 
through  their  interstices  with  a few  mighty  rolls  of  his 
brush  laden  with  white. 

6.  St.  Mary  of  Egypt.  This  picture  differs  but  little  in 
the  plan,  from  the  one  opposite,  except  that  St.  Mary  has 
her  back  towards  us,  and  the  Magdalen  her  face,  and  that 
the  tree  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook  is  a palm  instead  of 
a laurel.  The  brook  (Jordan  ?)  is,  however,  here  much 
more  important  ; and  the  water  painting  is  exceedingly 
fine.  Of  all  painters  that  I know,  in  old  times,  Tintoret  is 
the  fondest  of  running  water  ; there  was  a sort  of  sympathy 
between  it  and  his  own  impetuous  spirit.  The  rest  of  the 
landscape  is  not  of  much  interest,  except  so  far  as  it  is 


348 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE, 


pleasant  to  see  trunks  of  trees  drawn  by  single  strokes  of 
the  brush. 

7.  The  Circumcision  of  Christ.  The  custode  has  some 
story  about  this  picture  having  been  painted  in  imitation 
of  Paul  Veronese.  I much  doubt  if  Tintoret  ever  imitated 
any  body  ; but  this  picture  is  the  expression  of  his  per- 
ception of  what  Veronese  delighted  in,  the  nobility  that 
there  may  be  in  mere  golden  tissue  and  colored  drapery. 
It  is,  in  fact,  a picture  of  the  moral  power  of  gold  and 
color  ; and  the  chief  use  of  the  attendant  priest  is  to  sup- 
port upon  his  shoulders  the  crimson  robe,  with  its  square 
tablets  of  black  and  gold  ; and  yet  nothing  is  withdrawn 
from  the  interest  or  dignity  of  the  scene.  Tintoret  has 
taken  immense  pains  with  the  head  of  the  liigli-priest.  I 
know  not  any  existing  old  man’s  head  so  exquisitely  tender, 
or  so  noble  in  its  lines.  He  receives  the  infant  Christ 
in  his  arms  kneeling,  and  looking  down  upon  the  Child 
with  infinite  veneration  and  love  ; and  the  flashing  of  golden 
rays  from  its  head  is  made  the  centre  of  light,  and  all 
interest.  The  whole  picture  is  like  a golden  charger  to  re- 
ceive the  Child  ; the  priest’s  dress  is  held  up  behind  him, 
that  it  may  occupy  larger  space  ; the  tables  and  floor  are 
covered  with  chequer-work  ; the  shadows  of  the  temple 
are  filled  with  brazen  lamps  ; and  above  all  are  hung 
masses  of  curtains,  whose  crimson  folds  are  strewn  over 
with  golden  flakes.  Next  to  the  66  Adoration  of  the  Magi” 
this  picture  is  the  most  laboriously  finished  of  the  Scuola 
di  San  Eocco,  and  it  is  unquestionably  the  highest  existing 
type  of  the  sublimity  which  may  be  thrown  into  the 
treatment  of  accessaries  of  dress  and  decoration. 

8.  Assumption  of  the  Virgin.  On  the  tablet  or  panel  of 
stone  which  forms  the  side  of  the  tomb  out  of  which  the 
Madonna  rises,  is  this  inscription,  in  large  letters,  EEST. 
ANTONIUS  ELOEIAN,  1834.  Exactly  in  proportion  to  a 
man’s  idiocy,  is  always  the  size  of  the  letters  in  which  he 
writes  his  name  on  the  picture  that  he  spoils.  The  old 
mosaicists  in  St.  Mark’s  have  not,  in  a single  instance,  as 
far  as  I know,  signed  their  names  ; but  the  spectator  who 


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349 


wishes  to  know  who  destroyed  the  effect  of  the  nave,  may 
see  his  name  inscribed,  twice  over,  in  letters  half  a foot 
high,  Bartolomeo  Bozza.  I have  never  seen  Tintoret’s 
name  signed,  except  in  the  great  “ Crucifixion  ; ” but  this 
Antony  Florian,  I have  no  doubt,  repainted  the  whole  side 
of  the  tomb  that  he  might  put  his  name  on  it.  The  picture 
is,  of  course,  ruined  wherever  he  touched  it ; that  is  to  say, 
half  over  ; the  circle  of  cherubs  in  the  sky  is  still  pure  ; and 
the  design  of  the  great  painter  is  palpable  enough  yet  in 
the  grand  flight  of  the  horizontal  angel,  on  whom  the 
Madonna  half  leans  as  she  ascends.  It  has  been  a noble 
picture,  and  is  a grievous  loss  ; but,  happily,  there  are  so 
many  pure  ones,  that  we  need  not  spend  time  in  gleaning 
treasures  out  of  the  ruins  of  this. 

9.  Visitation . A small  picture,  painted  in  his  very  best 
manner  ; exquisite  in  its  simplicity,  unrivalled  in  vigor,  well 
preserved,  and,  as  a piece  of  painting,  certainly  one  of  the 
most  precious  in  Venice.  Of  course  it  does  not  show  any 
of  his  high  inventive  powers  ; nor  can  a picture  of  four 
middle-sized  figures  be  made  a proper  subject  of  comparison 
with  large  canvases  containing  forty  or  fifty  ; but  it  is,  for 
this  very  reason,  painted  with  such  perfect  ease,  and  yet 
with  no  slackness  either  of  affection  or  power,  that  there  is 
no  picture  that  I covet  so  much.  It  is,  besides,  altogether 
free  from  the  Renaissance  taint  of  dramatic  effect.  The 
gestures  are  as  simple  and  natural  as  Giotto’s,  only  ex- 
pressed by  grander  lines,  such  as  none  but  Tintoret  ever 
reached.  The  draperies  are  dark,  relieved  against  a light 
sky,  the  horizon  being  excessively  low,  and  the  outlines  of 
the  drapery  so  severe,  that  the  intervals  between  the  figures 
look  like  ravines  between  great  rocks,  and  have  all  the  sub- 
limity of  an  Alpine  valley  at  twilight.  This  precious  picture 
is  hung  about  thirty  feet  above  the  eye,  but  by  looking  at 
it  in  a strong  light,  it  is  discoverable  that  the  Saint  Eliza- 
beth is  dressed  in  green  and  crimson,  the  Virgin  in  the 
peculiar  red  which  all  great  colorists  delight  in — a sort  of 
glowing  brick- color  or  brownish  scarlet,  opposed  to  rich 
golden  brownish  black  ; and  both  have  white  kerchiefs,  or 


350 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


drapery,  thrown  over  their  shoulders.  Zacharias  leans  on 
his  staff  behind  them  in  a black  dress  with  white  sleeves. 
The  stroke  of  brilliant  white  light,  which  outlines  the  knee 
of  Saint  Elizabeth,  is  a curious  instance  of  the  habit  of  the 
painter  to  relieve  his  dark  forms  by  a sort  of  halo  of  more 
vivid  light,  which,  until  lately,  one  would  have  been  apt  to 
suppose  a somewhat  artificial  and  unjustifiable  means  of 
effect.  The  daguerreotype  has  shown,  what  the  naked  eye 
never  could,  that  the  instinct  of  the  great  painter  was  true, 
and  that  there  is  actually  such  a sudden  and  sharp  line  of  light 
round  the  edges  of  dark  objects  relieved  by  luminous  space. 

Opposite  this  picture  is  a most  precious  Titian,  the  “An- 
nunciation,” full  of  grace  and  beauty.  I think  the  Madonna 
one  of  the  sweetest  figures  he  ever  painted.  But  if  the  travel- 
ler has  entered  at  all  into  the  spirit  of  Tintoret,  he  will  imme- 
diately feel  the  comparative  feebleness  and  conventionality 
of  the  Titian.  Note  especially  the  mean  and  petty  folds  of 
the  angel’s  drapery  and  compare  them  with  the  draperies  of 
the  opposite  picture.  The  larger  pictures  at  the  sides  of 
the  stairs  by  Zanchi  and  Negri,  are  utterly  worthless. 

Second  Group.  On  the  walls  of  the  upper  room. 


10.  Adoration  of  Shepherds.  11.  Baptism.  12.  Resurrection.  13.  Agony  in  Gar- 
den. 14.  Last  Supper.  15.  Altar  Piece:  St.  Rocco.  16.  Miracle  of  Loaves.  17. 
Resurrection  of  Lazarus.  18.  Ascension.  19.  Pool  of  Bethesda.  20.  Temptation. 
21.  St.  Rocco.  22.  St.  Sebastian. 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


351 


10.  The  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds.  This  picture  com- 
mences the  series  of  the  upper  room,  which,  as  already  no- 
ticed, is  painted  with  far  less  care  than  that  of  the  lower. 
It  is  one  of  the  painter’s  inconceivable  caprices  that  the 
only  canvases  that  are  in  good  light  should  be  covered  in 
this  hasty  manner,  while  those  in  the  dungeon  below,  and 
on  the  ceiling  above,  are  all  highly  labored.  It  is,  however, 
just  possible  that  the  covering  of  these  walls  may  have  been 
an  after-thought,  when  he  had  got  tired  of  his  work.  They 
are  also,  for  the  most  part,  illustrative  of  a principle  of  which 
I am  more  and  more  convinced  every  day,  that  historical 
and  figure  pieces  ought  not  to  be  made  vehicles  for  effects 
of  light.  The  light  which  is  fit  for  a historical  picture  is 
that  tempered  semi-sunshine  of  which,  in  general,  the  works 
of  Titian  are  the  best  examples,  and  of  which  the  picture 
we  have  just  passed,  “ The  Visitation,”  is  a perfect  example 
from  the  hand  of  one  greater  than  Titian  ; so  also  the  three 
“Crucifixions”  of  San  Rocco,  San  Cassano,  and  St.  John 
and  Paul ; the  “ Adoration  of  the  Magi  ” here  ; and,  in  gen- 
eral, the  finest  works  of  the  master  ; but  Tintoret  was  not 
a man  to  work  in  any  formal  or  systematic  manner ; and, 
exactly  like  Turner,  we  find  him  recording  every  effect  wThich 
Nature  herself  displays.  Still  he  seems  to  regard  the  pict- 
ures which  deviate  from  the  great  general  principle  of 
colorists  rather  as  “tours  de  force”  than  as  sources  of 
pleasure  ; and  I do  not  think  there  is  any  instance  of  his 
having  worked  out  one  of  these  tricky  pictures  with  thorough 
affection,  except  only  in  the  case  of  the  “ Marriage  of  Cana.” 
B}r  tricky  pictures,  I mean  those  which  display  light  entering 
in  different  directions,  and  attract  the  eye  to  the  effects  rather 
than  to  the  figure  which  displays  them.  Of  this  treatment, 
we  have  already  had  a marvellous  instance  in  the  candle- 
light picture  of  the  “ Last  Supper  ” in  San  Giorgio  Maggiore. 
This  “Adoration  of  the  Shepherds  ” has  probably  been  nearly 
as  wonderful  when  first  painted  : the  Madonna  is  seated  on 
a kind  of  hammock  floor  made  of  rope  netting,  covered  with 
straw ; it  divides  the  picture  into  two  stories,  of  which  the 
uppermost  contains  the  Virgin,  with  two  women  who  are 


352 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


adoring  Christ,  and  shows  light  entering  from  above  through 
the  loose  timbers  of  the  roof  of  the  stable,  as  well  as  through 
the  bars  of  a square  window  ; the  lower  division  shows  this 
light  falling  behind  the  netting  upon  the  stable  floor  oc- 
cupied  by  a cock  and  a cow,  and  against  this  light  are  re- 
leved  the  fig-ures  of  the  shepherds,  for  the  most  part  in 

^ Wlth  fl?6S  °f  m°re  viS°rous sunshine  falling 

here  and  there  upon  them  from  above.  The  optical  illusion 
has  originally  been  as  perfect  as  one  of  Hunt’s  best  interiors  • 

been  VS1  “ that  110  part  of  the  work  seems  to  have 

been  taken  any  pleasure  in  by  the  painter  ; it  is  all  by  his 

hand  but  it  looks  as  if  he  had  been  bent  only  on  getting 

and’is ^ S7  V i ^ ^ litera%  a pieC6  °f  sc^e-pa!nting! 
and  is  exactly  wha  we  might  fancy  Tintoret  to  have  done! 

ad  he  been  forced  to  paint  scenes  at  a small  theatre  at  a 

shilling  a day  I cannot  think  that  the  whole  canvas,  though 

fourteen  feet  high  and  ten  wide,  or  thereabouts,  could  hale 

aken  lnm  more  than  a couple  of  days  to  finish : and  it  is 

IZrlTl1:  th!f  6XaCtly  in  proportion  to  tlle  brilliant 
effects  of  bght  is  the  coarseness  of  the  execution,  for  the 

guies  of  the  Madonna  and  of  the  women  above,  which  are 

not  m any  strong ; effect,  are  painted  with  some  care,  while 

ichl  tT  the  coware  alike  slovenly ; and  the  latter, 
ich  m full  sunshine,  is  recognizable  for  a cow  more  by 

form126  Tt  f rtS  h0mS’  ^ hj  a”y  Care  Slven  to  its 

“ 18  ^resting  to  contrast  this  slovenly  and  mean 

sketch  with  the  ass’s  head  in  the  “Flight  into  Egypt  ” on 

which  the  painter  exerted  his  full  power;  as  an  effect  of 

One  no  T6Ve  in  f iS’  °f  COUrse’  most  interesting. 

One  point  in  the  treatment  is  especially  noticeable  • there 

circifn?rC  m tLe  raCk  b6y0nd  the  cow  ; and  under  °ther 
li  “ ^ °n!  TUOt  d°Ubt  that  Tintoret  would  have 
and  ,],  ?!  111  i C°l0r’  and  WOuId  have  painted  it  green 

and  blue  with  great  satisfaction.  It  is  sacrificed  to  the  light 

to  ZTl  rrUted  “ Wam  ^h  a dim  eye  or 

two  m the  tail : this  process  is  exactly  analogous  to  Turner’s 

£?  wt'8  it °f  the  flagS  0f  his  Sbips  “ the  “GoS! 

1 • Anothei  striking  point  is  the  fitter  with  which  the 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


O - Q 
O 0 O 


whole  picture  is  filled  in  order  more  to  confuse  the  eye  : 
there  is  straw  sticking  from  the  roof,  straw  all  over  the 
hammock  floor,  and  straw  struggling  hither  and  thither  all 
over  the  floor  itself  ; and,  to  add  to  the  confusion,  the  glory 
around  the  head  of  the  infant,  instead  of  being  united  and 
serene,  is  broken  into  little  bits,  and  is  like  a glory  of  chopped 
straw.  But  the  most  curious  thing,  after  all,  is  the  want  of 
delight  in  any  of  the  principal  figures,  and  the  comparative 
meanness  and  commonplaceness  of  even  the  folds  of  the  drap- 
ery. It  seems  as  if  Tintoret  had  determined  to  make  the 
shepherds  as  uninteresting  as  possible  ; but  one  does  not  see 
why  their  very  clothes  should  be  ill  painted,  and  their  dis- 
position unpicturesque.  I believe,  however,  though  it  never 
struck  me  until  I had  examined  this  picture,  that  this  is  one 
of  the  painter’s  fixed  principles  : he  does  not,  with  German 
sentimentality,  make  shepherds  and  peasants  graceful  or 
sublime,  but  he  purposely  vulgarizes  them,  not  by  making 
their  actions  or  their  faces  boorish  or  disagreeable,  but 
rather  by  painting  them  ill,  and  composing  their  draperies 
tamely.  As  far  as  I recollect  at  present,  the  principle  is 
universal  with  him  ; exactly  in  proportion  to  the  dignity  of 
character  is  the  beauty  of  the  painting.  He  will  not  put 
out  his  strength  upon  any  man  belonging  to  the  lower 
classes  ; and,  in  order  to  know  what  the  painter  is,  one  must 
see  him  at  work  on  a king,  a senator,  or  a saint.  The  curi- 
ous connexion  of  this  with  the  aristocratic  tendencies  of  the 
Venetian  nation,  when  we  remember  that  Tintoret  was  the 
greatest  man  whom  that  nation  produced,  may  become  very 
interesting,  if  followed  out.  I forgot  to  note  that,  though 
the  peacock  is  painted  with  great  regardlessness  of  color, 
there  is  a feature  in  it  which  no  common  painter  would  have 
observed, — the  peculiar  flatness  of  the  back,  and  undulation 
of  the  shoulders : the  bird’s  body  is  all  there,  though  its 
feathers  are  a good  deal  neglected  ; and  the  same  thing  is 
noticeable  in  a cock  who  is  pecking  among  the  straw  near  the 
spectator,  though  in  other  respects  a shabby  cock  enough. 
The  fact  is,  I believe,  he  had  made  his  shepherds  so  com- 
monplace that  he  dare  not  paint  his  animals  well,  otherwise 
Vol.  III.— 23 


354 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


one  would  have  looked  at  nothing  in  the  picture  but  the  pea- 
cock, cock,  and  cow.  I cannot  tell  what  the  shepherds  are 
offering  ; they  look  like  milk  bowls,  but  they  are  awkwardly 
held  up,  with  such  twistings  of  body  as  would  have  certainly 
spilt  the  milk.  A woman  in  front  has  a basket  of  eggs  ; but 
this  I imagine  to  be  merely  to  keep  up  the  rustic  character 
of  the  scene,  and  not  part  of  the  shepherd’s,  offerings. 

11.  Baptism . There  is  more  of  the  true  picture  quality 
in  this  work  than  in  the  former  one,  but  still  very  little  ap- 
pearance of  enjoyment  or  care.  The  color  is  for  the  most 
part  grey  and  uninteresting,  and  the  figures  are  thin  and 
meagre  in  form,  and  slightly  painted  ; so  much  so,  that  of 
the  nineteen  figures  in  the  distance,  about  a dozen  are  hard- 
ly worth  calling  figures,  and  the  rest  are  so  sketched  and 
flourished  in  that  one  can  hardly  tell  which  is  which.  There 
is  one  point  about  it  very  interesting  to  a landscape  painter  : 
the  river  is  seen  far  into  the  distance,  with  a piece  of  copse 
bordering  it ; the  sky  beyond  is  dark,  but  the  water  never- 
theless receives  a brilliant  reflection  from  some  unseen  rent 
in  the  clouds,  so  brilliant,  that  when  I was  first  at  Venice, 
not  being  accustomed  to  Tintoret’s  slight  execution,  or  to 
see  pictures  so  much  injured,  I took  this  piece  of  water  for  a 
piece  of  sky.  The  effect  as  Tintoret  has  arranged  it,  is  indeed 
somewhat  unnatural,  but  it  is  valuable  as  showing  his  recog- 
nition of  a principle  unknown  to  half  the  historical  painters 
of  the  present  day, — that  the  reflection  seen  in  the  water  is 
totally  different  from  the  object  seen  above  it,  and  that  it  is 
very  possible  to  have  a bright  light  in  reflection  where  there 
appears  nothing  but  darkness  to  be  reflected.  The  clouds  in 
the  sky  itself  are  round,  heavy,  and  lightless,  and  in  a great 
degree  spoil  what  would  otherwise  be  a fine  landscape  dis- 
tance. Behind  the  rocks  on  the  right,  a single  head  is 
seen,  with  a collar  on  the  shoulders  : it  seems  to  be  intended 
for  a portrait  of  some  person  connected  with  the  picture. 

12.  Resurrection . Another  of  the  “ effect  of  light  ” pict- 
ures, and  not  a very  striking  one,  the  best  part  of  it  being 
the  two  distant  figures  of  the  Maries  seen  in  the  dawn  of  the 
morning.  The  conception  of  the  Resurrection  itself  is  char- 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


355 


acteristic  of  the  worst  points  of  Tintoret.  His  impetuosity 
is  here  in  the  wrong*  place  ; Christ  bursts  out  of  the  rock  like 
a thunderbolt,  and  the  angels  themselves  seem  likely  to  be 
crushed  under  the  rent  stones  of  the  tomb.  Had  the  figure 
of  Christ  been  sublime,  this  conception  might  have  been  ac- 
cepted ; but,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  weak,  mean,  and  painful ; 
and  the  whole  picture  is  languidly  or  roughly  painted,  ex- 
cept only  the  fig-tree  at  the  top  of  the  rock,  which,  by  a curi- 
ous caprice,  is  not  only  drawn  in  the  painter’s  best  manner, 
but  has  golden  ribs  to  all  its  leaves,  making  it  look  like  one 
of  the  beautiful  crossed  or  chequered  patterns,  of  which  he 
is  so  fond  in  his  dresses  ; the  leaves  themselves  being  a dark 
olive  brown. 

13.  The  Agony  in  the  Garden . I cannot  at  present  under- 
stand the  order  of  these  subjects  ; but  they  may  have  been 
misplaced.  This,  of  all  the  San  Rocco  pictures,  is  the  most 
hastily  painted,  but  it  is  not,  like  those  we  have  been  pass- 
ing, coldly  painted ; it  seems  to  have  been  executed  alto- 
gether with  a hearth-broom,  and  in  a few  hours.  It  is  an- 
other of  the  “ effects,”  and  a very  curious  one  ; the  Angel 
who  bears  the  cup  to  Christ  is  surrounded  by  a red  halo  ; 
yet  the  light  which  falls  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  sleeping 
disciples,  and  upon  the  leaves  of  the  olive-trees,  is  cool  and 
silvery,  while  the  troop  coming  up  to  seize  Christ  are  seen 
by  torchlight.  Judas,  who  is  the  second  figure,  points  to 
Christ,  but  turns  his  head  away  as  he  does  so,  as  unable  to 
look  at  him.  This  is  a noble  touch  ; the  foliage  is  also  ex- 
ceedingly fine,  though  what  kind  of  olive-tree  bears  such 
leaves  I know  not,  each  of  them  being  about  the  size  of  a 
man’s  hand.  If  there  be  any  which  bear  such  foliage,  their 
olives  must  be  the  size  of  cocoa-nuts.  This,  however,  is  true 
only  of  the  underwood,  which  is,  perhaps,  not  meant  for 
olive.  There  are  some  taller  trees  at  the  top  of  the  picture, 
whose  leaves  are  of  a more  natural  size.  On  closely  examin- 
ing the  figures  of  the  troops  on  the  left,  I find  that  the  dis- 
tant ones  are  concealed,  all  but  the  limbs,  by  a sort  of  arch 
of  dark  color,  which  is  now  so  injured,  that  I cannot  tell 
whether  it  was  foliage  or  ground  : I suppose  it  to  have  been 


35G 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


a mass  of  close  foliage,  through  which  the  troop  is  breaking 
its  way  ; Judas  rather  showing  them  the  path,  than  actually 
pointing  to  Christ,  as  it  is  written,  “ Judas,  who  betrayed 
him,  knew  the  place.”  St.  Peter,  as  the  most  zealous  of  the 
three  disciples,  the  only  one  who  was  to  endeavor  to  defend 
his  Master,  is  represented  as  awakening  and  turning  his  head 
toward  the  troop,  while  James  and  John  are  buried  in  pro- 
found slumber,  laid  in  magnificent  languor  among  the 
leaves.  The  picture  is  singularly  impressive,  when  seen  far 
enough  off,  as  an  image  of  thick  forest  gloom  amidst  the  rich 
and  tender  foliage  of  the  South  ; the  leaves,  however,  toss- 
ing as  in  disturbed  night  air,  and  the  flickering  of  the  torches, 
and  of  the  branches,  contrasted  with  the  steady  flame  which 
from  the  Angel’s  presence  is  spread  over  the  robes  of  the 
disciples.  The  strangest  feature  in  the  whole  is  that  the 
Christ  also  is  represented  as  sleeping.  The  angel  seems  to 
appear  to  him  in  a dream. 

14.  The  Last  Supper . A most  unsatisfactory  picture  ; I 
think  about  the  worst  I know  of  Tintoret’s,  where  there  is 
no  appearance  of  retouching.  He  always  makes  the  disci- 
ples in  this  scene  too  vulgar  ; they  are  here  not  only  vulgar, 
but  diminutive,  and  Christ  is  at  the  end  of  the  table,  the 
smallest  figure  of  them  all.  The  principal  figures  are  two 
mendicants  sitting  on  steps  in  front  ; a kind  of  supporters, 
but  I suppose  intended  to  be  waiting  for  the  fragments ; a 
dog,  in  still  more  earnest  expectation,  is  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  disciples,  who  are  talking  together,  Judas  hav- 
ing just  gone  out.  Christ  is  represented  as  giving  what  one 
at  first  supposes  is  the  sop  to  Judas,  but  as  the  disciple  who 
received  it  has  a glory,  and  there  are  only  eleven  at  table, 
it  is  evidently  the  Sacramental  bread.  The  room  in  which 
they  are  assembled  is  a sort  of  large  kitchen,  and  the  host 
is  seen  employed  at  a dresser  in  the  background.  This  pict- 
ure has  not  only  been  originally  poor,  but  is  one  of  those 
exposed  all  day  to  the  sun,  and  is  dried  into  mere  dusty 
canvas : where  there  was  once  blue,  there  is  now  nothing. 

15.  Saint  Rocco  in  Glory . One  of  the  worst  order  of  Tin- 
torets,  with  apparent  smoothness  and  finish,  yet  languidly 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


357 


painted,  as  if  in  illness  or  fatigue  ; very  dark  and  heavy  in 
tone  also  ; its  figures,  for  the  most  part,  of  an  awkward 
middle  size,  about  five  feet  high,  and  very  uninteresting. 
St.  Rocco  ascends  to  heaven,  looking  down  upon  a crowd  of 
poor  and  sick  persons  who  are  blessing  and  adoring  him. 
One  of  these,  kneeling  at  the  bottom,  is  very  nearly  a repe- 
tition,  though  a careless  and  indolent  one,  of  that  of  St. 
Stephen,  in  St.  Giorgio  Maggiore,  and  of  the  central  figure 
in  the  “ Paradise  ” of  the  Ducal  Palace.  It  is  a kind  of  lay 
figure,  of  which  he  seems  to  have  been  fond  ; its  clasped 
hands  are  here  shockingly  painted — I should  think  unfin- 
ished. It  forms  the  only  important  light  at  the  bottom, 
relieved  on  a dark  ground  ; at  the  top  of  the  picture,  the 
figure  of  St.  Rocco  is  seen  in  shadow  against  the  light  of  the 
sky,  and  all  the  rest  is  in  confused  shadow.  The  common- 
placeness of  this  composition  is  curiously  connected  with  the 
languor  of  thought  and  touch  throughout  the  wrork. 

16.  Miracle  of  the  Loaves . Hardly  anything  but  a fine 
piece  of  landscape  is  here  left ; it  is  more  exposed  to  the 
sun  than  any  other  picture  in  the  room,  and  its  draperies 
having  been,  in  great  part,  painted  in  blue,  are  now  mere 
patches  of  the  color  of  starch  ; the  scene  is  also  very  imper- 
fectly conceived.  The  twenty-one  figures,  including  Christ 
and  his  Disciples,  very  ill  represent  a crowd  of  seven  thou- 
sand ; still  less  is  the  marvel  of  the  miracle  expressed  by 
perfect  ease  and  rest  of  the  reclining  figures  in  the  fore- 
ground, who  do  not  so  much  as  look  surprised ; considered 
merely  as  reclining  figures,  and  as  pieces  of  effect  in  half 
light,  they  have  once  been  fine.  The  landscape,  which  rep- 
resents the  slope  of  a woody  hill,  has  a very  grand  and  far- 
away look.  Behind  it  is  a great  space  of  streaky  sky,  almost 
prismatic  in  color,  rosy  and  golden  clouds  covering  up  its 
blue,  and  some  fine  vigorous  trees  thrown  against  it ; painted 
in  about  ten  minutes  each,  however,  by  curly  touches  of  the 
brush,  and  looking  rather  more  like  sea-weed  than  foliage. 

17.  Resurrection  of  Lazarus . Very  strangely,  and  not 

impressively  conceived.  Christ  is  half  reclining,  half  sit* 
ting,  at  the  bottom  of  the  picture,  while  Lazarus  is  disen- 


858 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


cumbered  of  his  grave-clothes  at  the  top  of  it  ; the  scene 
being  the  side  of  a rocky  hill,  and  the  mouth  of  the  tomb 
probably  once  visible  in  the  shadow  on  the  left ; but  all 
that  is  now  discernible  is  a man  having  his  limbs  unbound., 
as  if  Christ  were  merely  ordering  a prisoner  to  be  loosed^ 
There  appears  neither  awe  nor  agitation,  nor  even  much  as- 
tonishment, in  any  of  the  figures  of  the  group  ; but  the 
picture  is  more  vigorous  than  any  of  the  three  last  mem 
tioned,  and  the  upper  part  of  it  is  quite  worthy  of  the  mas- 
ter, especially  its  noble  fig-tree  and  laurel,  which  he  has 
painted,  in  one  of  his  usual  fits  of  caprice,  as  carefully  as 
that  in  the  “ Besurrection  of  Christ/'  opposite.  Perhaps 
he  has  some  meaning  in  this  ; he  may  have  been  thinking 
of  the  verse,  “ Behold  the  fig-tree,  and  all  the  trees  ; when 
they  now  shoot  forth,"  &c.  In  the  present  instance,  the 
leaves  are  dark  only,  and  have  no  golden  veins.  The  upper- 
most figures  also  come  dark  against  the  sky,  and  would 
form  a precipitous  mass,  like  a piece  of  the  rock  itself,  but 
that  they  are  broken  in  upon  by  one  of  the  limbs  of  Laza- 
rus, bandaged  and  in  full  light,  which,  to  my  feeling,  sadly 
injures  the  picture,  both  as  a disagreeable  object,  and  a 
light  in  the  wrong  place.  The  grass  and  weeds  are,  through- 
out, carefully  painted,  but  the  lower  figures  are  of  little  in- 
terest, and  the  face  of  the  Christ  a grievous  failure. 

18.  The  Ascension.  I have  always  admired  this  picture, 
though  it  is  very  slight  and  thin  in  execution,  and  cold  in 
color  ; but  it  is  remarkable  for  its  thorough  effect  of  open 
air,  and  for  the  sense  of  motion  and  clashing  in  the  wings 
of  the  Angels  which  sustain  the  Christ : they  owe  this  effect 
a good  deal  to  the  manner  in  which  they  are  set,  ‘edge  on  ; 
all  seem  like  sword-blades  cutting  the  air.  It  is  the  most 
curious  in  conception  of  all  the  pictures  in  the  Scuola,  for 
it  represents,  beneath  the  Ascension,  a kind  of  epitome  of 
what  took  place  before  the  Ascension.  In  the  distance  are 
two  Apostles  walking,  meant,  I suppose,  for  the  two  going 
to  Emmaus  ; nearer  are  a group  round  a table,  to  remind 
us  of  Christ  appearing  to  them  as  they  sat  at  meat ; and  in 
the  foreground  is  a single  reclining  figure  of,  I suppose,  St. 


VENETIAN  INDEX, 


359 


Peter,  because  we  are  told  that  “ he  was  seen  of  Cephas, 
then  of  the  twelve  : ” but  this  interpretation  is  doubtful ; 
for  why  should  not  the  vision  by  the  Lake  of  Tiberias  be 
expressed  also  ? And  the  strange  thing  of  all  is  the  scene, 
for  Christ  ascended  from  the  Mount  of  Olives  ; but  the 
Disciples  are  walking,  and  the  table  is  set,  in  a little  marshy 
and  grassy  valley,  like  some  of  the  bits  near  Maison  Neuve 
on  the  Jura,  with  a brook  running  through  it,  so  capitally 
expressed,  that  I believe  it  is  this  which  makes  me  so  fond 
of  the  picture.  The  reflections  are  as  scientific  in  the  di- 
minution, in  the  image,  of  large  masses  of  bank  above,  as 
any  of  Turner’s,  and  the  marshy  and  reedy  ground  looks  as 
if  one  would  sink  into  it ; but  what  all  this  has  to  do  with 
the  Ascension  I cannot  see.  The  figure  of  Christ  is  not  un- 
dignified, but  by  no  means  either  interesting  or  sublime. 

19.  Pool  of  Bethesda,  I have  no  doubt  the  principal  fig- 
ures have  been  repainted  ; but  as  the  colors  are  faded,  and 
the  subject  disgusting,  I have  not  paid  this  picture  sufficient 
attention  to  say  how  far  the  injury  extends  ; nor  need  any 
one  spend  time  upon  it,  unless  after  having  first  examined 
all  the  other  Tintorets  in  Venice.  All  the  great  Italian 
painters  appear  insensible  to  the  feeling  of  disgust  at  dis- 
ease ; but  this  study  of  the  population  of  an  hospital  is 
without  any  points  of  contrast,  and  I wish  Tin  tore  t had  not 
condescended  to  paint  it.  This  and  the  six  preceding  paint- 
ings have  all  been  uninteresting, — I believe  chiefly  owing 
to  the  observance  in  them  of  Sir  Joshua’s  rule  for  the  heroic, 
“that  drapery  is  to  be  mere  drapery,  and  not  silk,  nor  satin, 
nor  brocade.”  However  wise  such  a rule  may  be  when  ap- 
plied to  works  of  the  purest  religious  art,  it  is  anything  but 
wise  as  respects  works  of  color.  Tintoret  is  never  quite 
himself  unless  he  has  fur  or  velvet,  or  rich  stuff  of  one  sort 
or  the  other,  or  jewels,  or  armor,  or  something  that  he  can 
put  play  of  color  into,  among  his  figures,  and  not  dead  folds 
of  linsey-woolsey  ; and  I believe  that  even  the  best  pictures 
of  Bafiaelle  and  Angelico  are  not  a little  helped  by  their 
hems  of  robes,  jewelled  crowns,  priests’  copes,  and  so  on  ; 
and  the  pictures  that  have  nothing  of  this  kind  in  them,  as 


360 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


for  instance  the  “ Transfiguration/’  are  to  my  mind  not  a 
little  dull. 

20.  Temptation . This  picture  singularly  illustrates  what 
has  just  been  observed  ; it  owes  great  part  of  its  effect  to 
the  lustre  of  the  jewels  in  the  armlet  of  the  evil  angel,  and 
to  the  beautiful  colors  of  his  wings.  These  are  slight  ac- 
cessaries apparently,  but  they  enhance  the  value  of  all  the 
rest,  and  they  have  evidently  been  enjoyed  by  the  painter. 
The  armlet  is  seen  by  reflected  light,  its  stones  shining  by 
inward  lustre  ; this  occult  fire  being  the  only  hint  given  of 
the  real  character  of  the  Tempter,  who  is  otherways  repre- 
sented in  the  form  of  a beautiful  angel,  though  the  face  is 
sensual : we  can  hardly  tell  how  far  it  was  intended  to  be 
therefore  expressive  of  evil ; for  Tintoret’s  good  angels  have 
not  always  the  purest  features  ; but  there  is  a peculiar  sub- 
tlety in  this  telling  of  the  story  by  so  slight  a circumstance 
as  the  glare  of  the  jewels  in  the  darkness.  It  is  curious  to 
compare  this  imagination  with  that  of  the  mosaics  in  St. 
Mark’s,  in  which  Satan  is  a black  monster,  with  horns,  and 
head,  and  tail,  complete.  The  whole  of  the  picture  is  pow- 
erfully and  carefully  painted,  though  very  broadly  ; it  is  a 
strong  effect  of  light,  and  therefore,  as  usual,  subdued  in 
color.  The  painting  of  the  stones  in  the  foreground  I have 
always  thought,  and  still  think,  the  best  piece  of  rock 
drawing  before  Turner,  and  the  most  amazing  instance  of 
Tintoret’s  perceptiveness  afforded  by  any  of  his  pictures. 

21.  St.  Rocco.  Three  figures  occupy  the  spandrils  of  the 
window  above  this  and  the  following  picture,  painted  merely 
in  light  and  shade,  two  larger  than  life,  one  rather  smaller. 
I believe  these  to  be  by  Tintoret ; but  as  they  are  quite  in 
the  daidv,  so  that  the  execution  cannot  be  seen,  and  very 
good  designs  of  the  kind  have  been  furnished  by  other 
masters,  I cannot  answer  for  them.  The  figure  of  St. 
Bocco,  as  well  as  its  companion,  St.  Sebastian,  is  colored ; 
they  occupy  the  narrow  intervals  between  the  windows, 
and  are  of  course  invisible  under  ordinary  circumstances. 
By  a great  deal  of  straining  of  the  eyes,  and  sheltering 
them  with  the  hand  from  the  light,  some  little  idea  of  the 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


361 


design  may  be  obtained.  The  “ St.  Rocco  ” is  a fine  figure, 
though  rather  coarse,  but,  at  all  events,  worth  as  much 
light  as  would  enable  us  to  see  it. 

22.  St.  Sebastian.  This,  the  companion  figure,  is  one  of 
the  finest  things  in  the  whole  room,  and  assuredly  the  most 
majestic  Saint  Sebastian  in  existence  ; as  far  as  mere  hu- 
manity can  be  majestic,  for  there  is  no  effort  at  any  expres- 
sion of  angelic  or  saintly  resignation  ; the  effort  is  simply 
to  realize  the  fact  of  the  martyrdom,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  this  is  done  to  an  extent  not  even  attempted  by  any 
other  painter.  I never  saw  a man  die  a violent  death,  and 
therefore  cannot  say  whether  this  figure  be  true  or  not,  but 
it  gives  the  grandest  and  most  intense  impression  of  truth. 
The  figure  is  dead,  and  well  it  may  be,  for  there  is  one  ar- 
row through  the  forehead  and  another  through  the  heart ; 
but  the  eyes  are  open,  though  glazed,  and  the  body  is  rigid 
in  the  position  in  which  it  last  stood,  the  left  arm  raised 
and  the  left  limb  advanced,  something  in  the  attitude  of  a 
soldier  sustaining  an  attack  under  his  shield,  while  the 
dead  eyes  are  still  turned  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
arrows  came : but  the  most  characteristic  feature  is  the  way 
these  arrows  are  fixed.  In  the  common  martyrdoms  of  St. 
Sebastian  they  are  stuck  into  him  here  and  there  like  pins, 
as  if  they  had  been  shot  from  a great  distance  and  had 
come  faltering  down,  entering  the  flesh  but  a little  way, 
and  rather  bleeding  the  saint  to  death  than  mortally 
wounding  him  ; but  Tintoret  had  no  such  ideas  about 
archery.  He  must  have  seen  bows  drawn  in  battle,  like 
that  of  Jehu  when  he  smote  Jehoram  between  the  harness  : 
all  the  arrows  in  the  saint’s  body  lie  straight  in  the  same 
direction,  broad-feathered  and  strong-shafted,  and  sent  ap- 
parently with  the  force  of  thunderbolts  ; every  one  of  them 
has  gone  through  him  like  a lance,  two  through  the  limbs, 
one  through  the  arm,  one  through  the  heart,  and  the 
last  has  crashed  through  the  forehead,  nailing  the  head  to 
the  tree  behind  as  if  it  had  been  dashed  in  by  a sledge- 
hammer. The  face,  in  spite  of  its  ghastliness,  is  beautiful, 
and  has  been  serene  ; and  the  light  which  enters  first  and 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


glistens  on  the  plumes  of  the  arrows,  dies  softly  away  upon 
the  curling  hair,  and  mixes  with  the  glory  upon  the  fore- 
head. There  is  not  a more  remarkable  picture  in  Venice, 
and  yet  I do  not  suppose  that  one  in  a thousand  of  the 
travellers  who  pass  through  the  Scuola  so  much  as  perceives 
there  is  a picture  in  the  place  which  it  occupies. 

Third  Group.  On  the  roof  of  the  upper  room. 


o CD)  o 


o CD  CD 


23.  Moses  striking  the  Rock.  24.  Plague  of  Serpents.  25.  Fall  of  Manna.  26. 

Jacob’s  dream.  27.  Ezekiel's  Vision.  28.  Fall  of  Man.  29.  Elijah.  30.  Jonah.  31. 

Joshua.  32.  Sacrifice  of  Isaac.  33.  Eliiah  at  the  Brook.  34.  Paschal  Feast.  35. 

Elisha  feeding  the  People. 

23.  Moses  striking  the  Rock . We  now  come  to  the  series 

of  pictures  upon  which  the  painter  concentrated  the  strength 
he  had  reserved  for  the  upper  room  ; and  in  some  sort 
wisely,  for,  though  it  is  not  pleasant  to  examine  pictures  on 
a ceiling,  they  are  at  least  distinctly  visible  without  straining 
the  eyes  against  the  light.  They  are  carefully  conceived 
and  thoroughly  well  painted  in  proportion  to  their  distance 
from  the  eye.  This  carefulness  of  thought  is  apparent  at 
a glance:  the  “ Moses  striking  the  Rock”  embraces  the 
whole  of  the  seventeenth  chapter  of  Exodus,  and  even 
something  more,  for  it  is  not  from  that  chapter,  but  from 
parallel  passages  that  wre  gather  the  facts  of  the  impatience 
of  Moses  and  the  wrath  of  God  at  the  wTaters  of  Meribali ; 
both  which  facts  are  shown  by  the  leaping  of  the  stream 
out  of  the  rock  half-a-dozen  ways  at  once,  forming  a great 
arch  over  the  head  of  Moses,  and  by  the  partial  veiling  of 
the  countenance  of  the  Supreme  Being.  This  latter  is  the 


VENETIAN  INDEX . 


363 


most  painful  part  of  the  whole  picture,  at  least  as  it  is  seen 
from  below  ; and  I believe  that  in  some  repairs  of  the  roof 
this  head  must  have  been  destroyed  and  repainted.  It  is 
one  of  Tintoret’s  usual  fine  thoughts  that  the  lower  part  of 
the  figure  is  veiled,  not  merely  by  clouds,  but  in  a hind  of 
watery  sphere,  showing  the  Deity  coming  to  the  Israelites  at 
that  particular  moment  as  the  Lord  of  the  Rivers  and  of  the 
Fountain  of  the  Waters.  The  whole  figure,  as  well  as  that 
of  Moses  and  the  greater  number  of  those  in  the  foreground, 
is  at  once  dark  and  warm,  black  and  red  being  the  pre- 
vailing colors,  while  the  distance  is  bright  gold  touched 
with  blue,  and  seems  to  open  into  the  picture  like  a break 
of  blue  sky  after  rain.  How  exquisite  is  this  expression, 
by  mere  color,  of  the  main  force  of  the  fact  represented  ! 
that  is  to  say,  joy  and  refreshment  after  sorrow*  and  scorch- 
ing heat.  But,  when  we  examine  of  what  this  distance  con- 
sists,  we  shall  find  still  more  cause  for  admiration.  The 
blue  in  it  is  not  the  blue  of  sky,  it  is  obtained  by  blue 
stripes  upon  white  tents  glowing  in  the  sunshine  ; and  in 
front  of  these  tents  is  seen  that  great  battle  with  Amalek  of 
which  the  account  is  given  in  the  remainder  of  the  chapter, 
and  for  which  the  Israelites  received  strength  in  the  streams 
which  ran  out  of  the  rock  in  Horeb.  Considered  merely  as 
a picture,  the  opposition  of  cool  light  to  warm  shadow  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  pieces  of  color  in  the  Scuola, 
and  the  great  mass  of  foliage  which  waves  over  the  rocks 
on  the  left  appears  to  have  been  elaborated  with  his  high- 
est power  and  his  most  sublime  invention.  But  this  noble 
passage  is  much  injured,  and  now  hardly  visible. 

24.  Plague  of  Serpents . The  figures  in  the  distance  are 
remarkably  important  in  this  picture,  Moses  himself  being 
among  them  ; in  fact,  the  whole  scene  is  filled  chiefly  with 
middle-sized  figures,  in  order  to  increase  the  impression  of 
space.  It  is  interesting  to  observe  the  difference  in  the 
treatment  of  this  subject  by  the  three  great  painters,  Michael 
Angelo,  Rubens,  and  Tintoret.  The  first  two,  equal  to  the 
latter  in  energy,  had  less  love  of  liberty  : they  were  fond  of 
binding  their  compositions  into  knots,  Tintoret  of  scatter- 


364 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


ing  his  far  and  wide  : they  all  alike  preserve  the  unity  ot 
composition,  but  the  unity  in  the  first  two  is  obtained  by 
binding,  and  that  of  the  last  by  springing  from  one  source  ; 
and,  together  with  this  feeling,  comes  his  love  of  space,  which 
makes  him  less  regard  the  rounding  and  form  of  objects 
themselves,  than  their  relations  of  light  and  shade  and  dis- 
tance. Therefore  Rubens  and  Michael  Angelo  made  the  fiery 
serpents  huge  boa  constrictors,  and  knotted  the  sufferers 
together  with  them.  Tintoret  does  not  like  to  be  so  bound  ; 
so  he  makes  the  serpents  little  flying  and  fluttering  mon- 
sters like  lampreys  with  wings  ; and  the  children  of  Israel, 
instead  of  being  thrown  into  convulsed  and  writhing 
groups,  are  scattered,  fainting  in  the  fields,  far  avray  in  the 
distance.  As  usual,  Tintoret’s  conception,  while  thoroughly 
characteristic  of  himself,  is  also  truer  to  the  words  of  Script- 
ure. We  are  told  that  “ the  Lord  sent  fiery  serpents 
among  the  people,  and  they  bit  the  people  ; ” we  are  not 
told  that  they  crushed  the  people  to  death.  And  while  thus 
the  truest,  it  is  also  the  most  terrific  conception.  M.  An- 
gelo’s would  be  terrific  if  one  could  believe  in  it : but  our 
instinct  tells  us  that  boa  constrictors  do  not  come  in  armies  ; 
and  we  look  upon  the  picture  with  as  little  emotion  as  up- 
on the  handle  of  a vase,  or  any  other  form  w-orked  out  of 
serpents,  where  there  is  no  probability  of  serpents  actually 
occurring.  But  there  is  a probability  in  Tintoret’s  concep- 
tion. We  feel  that  it  is  not  impossible  that  there  should 
come  up  a swarm  of  these  small  winged  reptiles  : and  their 
horror  is  not  diminished  by  their  smallness  : not  that  they 
have  any  of  the  grotesque  terribleness  of  German  inven- 
tion ; they  might  have  been  made  infinitely  uglier  with 
small  pains,  but  it  is  their  veritableness  which  makes  them 
awful.  They  have  triangular  heads  with  sharp  beaks  or 
muzzle  ; and  short,  rather  thick  bodies,  with  bony  pro- 
cesses down  the  back  like  those  of  sturgeons  ; and  small 
wings  spotted  with  orange  and  black  ; and  round  glaring 
eyes,  not  very  large,  but  very  ghastly,  with  an  intense  de- 
light in  biting  expressed  in  them.  (It  is  observable,  that 
the  Venetian  painter  has  got  his  main  idea  of  them  from 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


365 


the  sea-horses  and  small  reptiles  of  the  Lagoons.)  These 
monsters  are  flattering  and  writhing  about  everywhere,  fix- 
ing on  whatever  they  come  near  with  their  sharp  venom- 
ous heads  ; and  they  are  coiling  about  on  the  ground, 
and  all  the  shadows  and  thickets  are  full  of  them,  so  that 
there  is  no  escape  anywhere : and,  in  order  to  give  the 
idea  of  greater  extent  to  the  plague,  Tintoret  has  not  been 
content  with  one  horizon  ; I have  before  mentioned  the 
excessive  strangeness  of  this  composition,  in  having  a cavern 
open  in  the  right  of  the  foreground,  through  which  is  seen 
another  sky  and  another  horizon.  At  the  top  of  the  picture, 
the  Divine  Being  is  seen  borne  by  angels,  apparently  passing 
over  the  congregation  in  wrath,  involved  in  masses  of  dark 
clouds  ; while,  behind,  an  Angel  of  mercy  is  descending  to- 
wards Moses,  surrounded  by  a globe  of  white  light.  This 
globe  is  hardly  seen  from  belowg  it  is  not  a common  glory,  but 
a transparent  sphere,  like  a bubble,  which  not  only  envelopes 
the  angel,  but  crosses  the  figure  of  Moses,  throwing  the 
upper  part  of  it  into  a subdued  pale  color,  as  if  it  were 
crossed  by  a sunbeam.  Tintoret  is  the  only  painter  who 
plays  these  tricks  with  transparent  light,  the  only  man  who 
seems  to  have  perceived  the  effects  of  sunbeams,  mists,  and 
clouds,  in  the  far  away  atmosphere  ; and  to  have  used  what 
he  saw  on  towers,  clouds,  or  mountains,  to  enhance  the 
sublimity  of  his  figures.  The  whole  upper  part  of  this 
picture  is  magnificent,  less  with  respect  to  individual  figures, 
than  for  the  drift  of  its  clouds,  and  originality  and  complica- 
tion of  its  light  and  shade  ; it  is  something  like  Baffaelle’s 
“ Vision  of  Ezekiel,”  but  far  finer.  It  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand how  any  painter,  who  could  represent  floating  clouds 
so  nobly  as  lie  has  done  here,  could  ever  paint  the  odd, 
round,  pillowy  masses  wdiich  so  often  occur  in  his  more 
carelessly  designed  sacred  subjects.  The  lower  figures  are 
not  so  interesting,  and  the  whole  is  painted  with  a view  to 
effect  from  below,  and  gains  little  by  close  examination. 

25.  Fall  of  Manna,  In  none  of  these  three  large  compo- 
sitions has  the  painter  made  the  slightest  effort  at  expres- 
sion in  the  human  countenance  ; everything  is  done  by 


366 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


gesture,  and  the  faces  of  the  people  who  are  drinking  from 
the  rock,  dying  from  the  serpent-bites,  and  eating  the 
manna,  are  all  alike  as  calm  as  if  nothing  was  happening  ; 
in  addition  to  this,  as  they  are  painted  for  distant  effect,  the 
{leads  are  unsatisfactory  and  coarse  when  seen  near,  and 
perhaps  in  this  last  picture  th^e  more  so,  and  yet  the  story 
is  exquisitely  told.  We  have  seen  in  the  Church  of  San 
Giorgio  Maggiore  another  example  of  his  treatment  of  it, 
where,  however,  the  gathering  of  manna  is  a subordinate 
employment,  but  here  it  is  principal.  Now,  observe,  we 
are  told  of  the  manna,  that  it  was  found  in  the  morning ; 
that  then  there  lay  round  about  the  camp  a small  round 
thing  like  the  hoar-frost,  and  that  “ when  the  sun  waxed 
hot  it  melted.  ” Tintoret  has  endeavored,  therefore,  first  of 
all,  to  give  the  idea  of  coolness ; the  congregation  are  re- 
posing in  a soft  green  meadow,  surrounded  by  blue  hills, 
and  there  are  rich  trees  above  them,  to  the  branches  of  one 
of  which  is  attached  a great  grey  drapery  to  catch  the 
manna  as  it  comes  down.  In  any  other  picture  such  a mass 
of  drapery  would  assuredly  have  had  some  vivid  color,  but 
here  it  is  grey ; the  fields  are  cool  frosty  green,  the  moun- 
tains cold  blue,  and,  to  complete  the  expression  and  mean- 
ing of  all  this,  there  is  a most  important  point  to  be  noted 
in  the  form  of  the  Deity,  seen  above,  through  an  opening 
in  the  clouds.  There  are  at  least  ten  or  twelve  other  pict- 
ures in  which  the  form  of  the  Supreme  Being  occurs,  to 
be  found  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  alone  ; and  in  every 
one  of  these  instances  it  is  richly  colored,  the  garments  be- 
ing generally  red  and  blue,  but  in  this  picture  of  the  manna 
the  figure  is  snow  white.  Thus  the  painter  endeavors  to 
show  the  Deity  as  the  giver  of  bread,  just  as  in  the  “ Strik- 
ing of  the  Rock  ” we  saw  that  he  represented  Him  as  tho 
Lord  of  the  rivers,  the  fountains,  and  the  waters.  There  is 
one  other  very  sweet  incident  at  the  bottom  of  the  picture  ; 
four  or  five  sheep,  instead  of  pasturing,  turn  their  heads 
aside  to  catch  the  manna  as  it  comes  down,  or  seem  to  be  lick- 
ing it  off  each  other’s  fleeces.  The  tree  above,  to  which  the 
drapery  is  tied,  is  the  most  delicate  and  delightful  piece  of 


VENETIAN  INDEX '.  • 


367 


leafage  in  all  tlie  Scuola  ; it  has  a large  sharp  leaf,  some- 
thing like  that  of  a willow,  but  five  times  the  size. 

26.  Jacob's  Dream . A picture  which  has  good  effect  from 
below,  but  gains  little  when  seen  near.  It  is  an  embarras- 
sing one  for  any  painter,  because  angels  always  look  awk- 
ward going  up  and  down  stairs  ; one  does  not  see  the  use 
of  their  wings.  Tintoret  has  thrown  them  into  buoyant 
and  various  attitudes,  but  has  evidently  not  treated  the  sub- 
ject with  delight ; and  it  is  seen  to  all  the  more  disadvan- 
tage because  just  above  the  painting  of  the  “ Ascension,  ’ in 
which  the  full  fresh  power  of  the  painter  is  developed.  One 
would  think  this  latter  picture  had  been  done  just  after  a 
walk  among  hills,  for  it  is  full  of  the  most  delicate  effects 
of  transparent  cloud,  more  or  less  veiling  the  faces  and 
forms  of  the  angels,  and  covering  with  white  light  the  sil- 
very sprays  of  the  palms,  while  the  clouds  in  the  “Jacob’s 
Dream  ” are  the  ordinary  rotundities  of  the  studio. 

27.  Ezekiel's  Vision.  I suspect  this  has  been  repainted,  it 
is  so  heavy  and  dead  in  color  ; a fault,  however,  observable 
in  many  of  the  small  pictures  on  the  ceiling,  and  perhaps 
the  natural  result  of  the  fatigue  of  such  a mind  as  Tinto- 
ret’s.  A painter  who  threw  such  intense  energy  into  some 
of  his  works  can  hardly  but  have  been  languid  in  others  in 
a degree  never  experienced  by  the  more  tranquil  minds  of 
less  powerful  workmen  ; and  when  this  languor  overtook 
him  whilst  he  was  at  work  on  pictures  where  a certain  space 
had  to  be  covered  by  mere  force  of  arm,  this  heaviness  of 
color  could  hardly  but  have  been  the  consequence  : it  shows 
itself  chiefly  in  reds  and  other  hot  hues,  many  of  the  pict- 
ures in  the  Ducal  Palace  also  displaying  it  in  a painful  de- 
gree. This  “ Ezekiel’s  Vision  ” is,  however,  in  some  meas- 
ure worthy  of  the  master,  in  the  wild  and  horrible  energy 
with  which  the  skeletons  are  leaping  up  about  the  prophet ; 
but  it  might  have  been  less  horrible  and  more  sublime,  no 
attempt  being  made  to  represent  the  space  of  the  Valley  of 
Dry  Bones,  and  the  whole  canvas  being  occupied  only  by  eight 
figures,  of  which  five  are  half  skeletons.  It  is  strange  that,  in 
such  a subject,  the  prevailing  hues  should  be  red  and  brown. 


368 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE . 


28.  Fall  of  Man.  The  two  canvases  last  named  are  the 
most  considerable  in  size  upon  the  roof,  after  the  centre 
pieces.  We  now  come  to  the  smaller  subjects  which  sur- 
round the  "Striking  the  Rock;’5  of  these  this  ‘‘Fall  of 
Man  ” is  the  best,  and  I should  think  it  very  fine  anywhere 
but  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  ; there  is  a grand  light  on 
the  body  of  Eve,  and  the  vegetation  is  remarkably  rich,  but 
the  faces  are  coarse,  and  the  composition  uninteresting.  I 
could  not  get  near  enough  to  see  what  the  grey  object  is 
upon  which  Eve  appears  to  be  sitting,  nor  could  I see  any 
serpent.  It  is  made  prominent  in  the  picture  of  the  Acad- 
emy of  this  same  subject,  so  that  I suppose  it  is  hidden  in 
the  darkness,  together  with  much  detail  which  it  would  be 
necessary  to  discover  in  order  to  judge  the  work  justly. 

29.  Elijah  {?).  A prophet  holding  down  his  face,  which 
is  covered  with  his  hand.  God  is  talking  with  him,  appar- 
ently in  rebuke.  The  clothes  on  his  breast  are  rent,  and 
the  action  of  the  figures  might  suggest  the  idea  of  the  scene 
between  the  Deity  and  Elijah  at  Horeb  : but  there  is  no 
suggestion  of  the  past  magnificent  scenery, — of  the  wind, 
the  earthquake,  or  the  fire  ; so  that  the  conjecture  is  good 
for  very  little.  The  painting  is  of  small  interest ; the  faces 
are  vulgar,  and  the  draperies  have  too  much  vapid  historical 
dignity  to  be  delightful. 

30.  Jonah.  The  whale  here  occupies  fully  one -half  of 
the  canvas;  being  correspondent  in  value  with  a landscape 
background.  His  month  is  as  large  as  a cavern,  and  yet, 
unless  the  mass  of  red  color  in  the  foreground  be  a piece 
of  drapery,  his  tongue  is  too  large  for  it.  He  seems  to 
have  lifted  Jonah  out  upon  it,  and  not  yet  drawn  it  back, 
so  that  it  forms  a kind  of  crimson  cushion  for  him  to  kneel 
upon  in  his  submission  to  the  Deit}r.  The  head  to  which 
this  vast  tongue  belongs  is  sketched  in  somewhat  loosely, 
and  there  is  little  remarkable  about  it  except  its  size,  nor 
much  in  the  figures,  though  the  submissiveness  of  Jonah  is 
well  given.  The  great  thought  of  Michael  Angelo  renders 
one  little  charitable  to  any  less  imaginative  treatment  of 
this  subject. 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


369 


31.  Joshua  (?).  This  is  a most  interesting  picture,  and  it 
is  a shame  that  its  subject  is  not  made  out,  for  it  is  not  a 
common  one.  The  figure  has  a sword  in  its  hand,  and 
looks  up  to  a sky  full  of  fire,  out  of  which  the  form  of  the 
Deity  is  stooping,  represented  as  white  and  colorless.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  picture  there  is  seen  among  the  clouds 
a pillar  apparently  falling,  and  there  is  a crowd  at  the  feet 
of  the  principal  figure,  carrying  spears.  Unless  this  be 
Joshua  at  the  fall  of  Jericho,  I cannot  tell  what  it  means  ; 
it  is  painted  with  great  vigor,  and  worthy  of  a better  place. 

32.  Sacrifice  of  Isaac.  In  conception,  it  is  one  of  the 
least  worthy  of  the  master  in  the  whole  room,  the  three 
figures  being  thrown  into  violent  attitudes,  as  inexpressive 
as  they  are  strained  and  artificial.  It  appears  to  have  been 
vigorously  painted,  but  vulgarly  ; that  is  to  say,  the  light  is 
concentrated  upon  the  white  beard  and  upturned  counte- 
nance of  Abraham,  as  it  would  have  been  in  one  of  the 
dramatic  effects  of  the  French  school,  the  result  being  that 
the  head  is  very  bright  and  very  conspicuous,  and  perils, 
in  some  of  the  late  operations  upon  the  roof,  recently 
washed  and  touched.  In  consequence,  every  one  who 
comes  into  the  room,  is  first  invited  to  observe  the  “bella 
testa  di  Abramo.”  The  only  thing  characteristic  of  Tinto- 
ret  is  the  way  in  which  the  pieces  of  ragged  wood  are  tossed 
hither  and  thither  in  the  pile  upon  which  Isaac  is  bound, 
although  this  scattering  of  the  wood  is  inconsistent  with 
the  Scriptural  account  of  Abraham’s  deliberate  procedure, 
for  we  are  told  of  him  that  “he  set  the  wood  in  order.” 
But  Tin  tore  t had  probably  not  noticed  this,  and  thought 
the  tossing  of  the  timber  into  the  disordered  heap  more 
like  the  act  of  the  father  in  his  agony. 

33.  Elijah  at  the  Brook  Cherith  (?).  I cannot  tell  if  I 
have  rightly  interpreted  the  meaning  of  this  picture,  which 
merely  represents  a noble  figure  couched  upon  the  ground, 
and  an  angel  appearing  to  him  ; but  I think  that  between 
the  dark  tree  on  the  left,  and  the  recumbent  figure,  there 
is  some  appearance  of  a running  stream,  at  all  events  there 
is  of  a mountainous  and  stony  place.  The  longer  I study 

Yol.  III.— 24 


370 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


this  master,  the  more  I feel  the  strange  likeness  between 
him  and  Turner,  in  our  never  knowing  what  subject  it  is 
that  will  stir  him  to  exertion.  "We  have  lately  had  him 
treating  Jacob’s  Dream,  Ezekiel’s  Vision,  Abraham’s  Sacri- 
fice, and  Jonah’s  Prayer,  (all  of  them  subjects  on  which  the 
greatest  painters  have  delighted  to  expend  their  strength,) 
with  coldness,  carelessness,  and  evident  absence  of  delight ; 
and  here,  on  a sudden,  in  a subject  so  indistinct  that  one 
cannot  be  sure  of  its  meaning,  and  embracing  only  two 
figures,  a man  and  an  angel,  forth  he  starts  in  his  full 
strength.  I" believe  he  must  somewhere  or  another,  the  day 
before,  have  seen  a kingfisher  : for  this  picture  seems  en- 
tirely painted  for  the  sake  of  the  glorious  downy  wings  of 
the  angel, — white  clouded  with  blue,  as  the  bird’s  head  and 
wings  are  wTith  green, — the  softest  and  most  elaborate  in 
plumage  that  I have  seen  in  any  of  his  works  : but  observe 
also  the  general  sublimit}^  obtained  by  the  mountainous 
lines  of  the  drapery  of  the  recumbent  figure,  dependent  for 
its  dignity  upon  these  forms  alone,  as  the  face  is  more  than 
half  hidden,  and  what  is  seen  of  it  expressionless. 

34.  The  Paschal  Feast.  I name  this  picture  by  the  title 
given  in  the  guide-books  ; it  represents  merely  five  persons 
watching  the  increase  of  a small  fire  lighted  on  a table  or 
altar  in  the  midst  of  them.  It  is  only  because  they  have 
all  staves  in  their  hands  that  one  may  conjecture  this  fire 
to  be  that  kindled  to  consume  the  Paschal  offering.  The 
effect  is  of  course  a fire  light  ; and,  like  all  mere  fire  lights 
that  I have  ever  seen,  totally  devoid  of  interest. 

35.  Elisha  feeding  the  People.  I again  guess  at  the  sub- 
ject : the  picture  only  represents  a figure  casting  down  a 
number  of  loaves  before  a multitude  ; but,  as  Elisha  has 
not  elsewhere  occurred,  I suppose  that  these  must  be  the 
barley  loaves  brought  from  Baalshalisha.  In  conception 
and  manner  of  painting,  this  picture  and  the  last,  together 
with  the  others  above-mentioned,  in  comparison  with  the 
“ Elijah  at  Cherith,”  may  be  generally  described  as  “dregs 
of  Tintoret : ” they  are  tired,  dead,  dragged  out  upon  the 
canvas  apparently  in  the  heavy-hearted  state  which  a man 


VENETIAN  INDEX, . 


371 


falls  into  when  he  is  both  jaded  with  toil  and  sick  of  the 
work  he  is  employed  upon.  They  are  not  hastily  painted  ; 
on  the  contrary,  finished  with  considerably  more  care  than 
several  of  the  works  upon  the  walls ; but  those,  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  “ Agony  in  the  Garden,”  are  hurried  sketches 
with  the  man’s  whole  heart  in  them,  while  these  pictures 
are  exhausted  fulfilments  of  an  appointed  task.  Whether 
they  were  really  amongst  the  last  painted,  or  whether  the 
painter  had  fallen  ill  at  some  intermediate  time,  I cannot 
say ; but  we  shall  find  him  again  in  his  utmost  strength  in 
the  room  which  we  last  enter. 

Fourth  Group.  Inner  room  on  the  upper  floor. 

€ 2. . 


cT*9  “ T3  (5l 

On  the  Roof : 36  to  39.  Children's  Heads.  40.  St.  Rocco  in  Heaven.  41  to  44. 
Children.  45  to  56.  Allegorical  Figures.— On  the  Walls : 57.  Figure  in  Niche.  58. 
Figure  in  Niche.  59.  Christ  before  Pilate.  60.  Ecce  Homo.  61.  Christ  bearing  hi& 
Cross.  62.  Crucifixion. 


36.  to  39.  Four  Children's  Heads , which  it  is  much  to  be 
regretted  should  be  thus  lost  in  filling  small  vacuities  of  the 
ceiling. 


372 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


40.  St.  Rocco  in  Heaven.  The  central  picture  of  the 
roof,  in  the  inner  room.  From  the  well-known  anecdote 
respecting  the  production  of  this  picture,  whether  in  all  its 
details  true  or  not,  we  may  at  least  gather  that  having  been 
painted  in  competition  with  Paul  Veronese  and  other  pow- 
erful painters  of  the  day,  it  was  probably  Tintoret’s  endeavor 
to  make  it  as  popular  and  showy  as  possible.^  It  is  quite 
different  from  his  common  works  ; bright  in  all  its  tints 
and  tones  ; the  faces  carefully  drawn,  and  of  an  agreeable 
type ; the  outlines  firm,  and  the  shadows  few  ; the  whole 
resembling  Correggio  more  than  any  Venetian  painter.  It 
is,  however,  an  example  of  the  danger,  even  to  the  greatest 
artist,  of  leaving  his  owrn  style  ; for  it  lacks  all  the  great  virt- 
ues of  Tintoret,  without  obtaining  the  lusciousness  of  Cor- 
reggio. One  thing,  at  all  events,  is  remarkable  in  it, — that, 
though  painted  while  the  competitors  were  making  their 
sketches,  it  shows  no  sign  of  haste  or  inattention. 

41  to  44.  Figures  of  Children , merely  decorative. 

45  to  56.  Allegorical  Figures  on  the  Roof.  If  these  were 
not  in  the  same  room  with  the  “ Crucifixion,”  they  would 
attract  more  public  attention  than  any  works  in  the  Scuola, 
as  there  are  here  no  black  shadows,  nor  extravagances  of 
invention,  but  very  beautiful  figures  richly  and  delicately 
colored,  a good  deal  resembling  some  of  the  best  works  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto.  There  is  nothing  in  them,  however,  re- 
quiring detailed  examination.  The  two  figures  between  the 
windows  are  very  slovenly,  if  they  are  his  at  all ; and  there 
are  bits  of  marbling  and  fruit  filling  the  cornices,  which  may 
or  may  not  be  his  : if  they  are,  they  are  tired  work,  and  of 
small  importance. 

59.  Christ  before  Pilate.  A most  interesting  picture,  but, 
which  is  unusual,  best  seen  on  a dark  day,  when  the  white 
figure  of  Christ  alone  drawTs  the  eye,  looking  almost  like  a 
spirit  ; the  painting  of  the  rest  of  the  picture  being  both 
somewhat  thin  and  imperfect.  There  is  a certain  meagre- 
ness about  all  the  minor  figures,  less  grandeur  and  large^ 
ness  in  the  limbs  and  draperies,  and  less  solidity,  it  seems, 
even  in  the  color,  although  its  arrangements  are  richer  than 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


373 


in  many  of  the  compositions  above  described.  I hardly 
know  whether  it  is  owing  to  this  thinness  of  color,  or  on  pur- 
pose, that  the  horizontal  clouds  shine  through  the  crimson 
flag  in  the  distance  ; though  I should  think  the  latter,  for  the 
effect  is  most  beautiful.  The  passionate  action  of  the  Scribe 
in  lifting  his  hand  to  dip  the  pen  into  the  ink-horn  is,  how- 
ever, affected  and  overstrained,  and  the  Pilate  is  very  mean  ; 
perhaps  intentionally,  that  no  reverence  might  be  withdrawn 
from  the  person  of  Christ.  In  work  of  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries,  the  figures  of  Pilate  and  Herod  are  al- 
ways intentionally  made  contemptible. 

60.  Ecce  Homo.  As  usual,  Tin  tore  t’s  own  peculiar  view  of 
the  subject.  Christ  is  laid  fainting  on  the  ground,  with  a 
soldier  standing  on  one  side  of  him  ; while  Pilate,  on  the 
other,  withdraws  the  robe  from  the  scourged  and  wounded 
body,  and  points  it  out  to  the  Jews.  Both  this  and  the  pict- 
ure last  mentioned  resemble  Titian  more  than  Tintoret  in 
the  style  of  their  treatment. 

61.  Ohrid  bearing  his  Gross.  Tintoret  is  here  recogniz- 
able again  in  undiminished  strength.  He  has  represented 
the  troops  and  attendants  climbing  Calvary  by  a winding 
path,  of  which  two  turns  are  seen,  the  figures  on  the  upper- 
most ledge,  and  Christ  in  the  centre  of  them,  being  relieved 
against  the  sky  ; but,  instead  of  the  usual  simple  expedient 
of  the  bright  horizon  to  relieve  the  dark  masses,  there  is 
here  introduced,  on  the  left,  the  head  of  a white  horse, 
which  blends  itself  with  the  sky  in  one  broad  mass  of  light. 
The  power  of  the  picture  is  chiefly  in  effect,  the  figure  of 
Christ  being  too  far  off  to  be  very  interesting,  and  only  the 
malefactors  being  seen  on  the  nearer  path  ; but  for  this  very 
reason  it  seems  to  me  more  impressive,  as  if  one  had  been 
truly  present  at  the  scene,  though  not  exactly  in  the  right 
place  for  seeing  it. 

62.  The  Crucifixion . I must  leave  this  picture  to  work 
its  will  on  the  spectator ; for  it  is  beyond  all  analysis,  and 
above  all  praise. 


374 


TEE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


s 

Sagredo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  II.  255.  Much  de- 
faced, but  full  of  interest.  Its  sea  story  is  restored  ; its  first 
floor  lias  a most  interesting  arcade  of  the  early  thirteenth 
century  third  order  windows ; its  upper  windows  are  the 
finest  fourth  and  fifth  orders  of  early  fourteenth  century  ; 
the  group  of  fourth  orders  in  the  centre  being  brought  into 
some  resemblance  to  the  late  Gothic  traceries  by  the  subse- 
quent introduction  of  the  quatrefoils  above  them. 

Salute,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria  della,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  II. 
376.  One  of  the  earliest  buildings  of  the  Grotesque  Re- 
naissance, rendered  impressive  by  its  position,  size,  and 
general  proportions.  These  latter  are  exceedingly  good  ; 
the  grace  of  the  whole  building  being  chiefly  dependent  on 
the  inequality  of  size  in  its  cupolas,  and  pretty  grouping  of 
the  two  campaniles  behind  them.  It  is  to  be  generally  ob- 
served that  the  proportions  of  buildings  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  the  style  or  general  merits  of  their  architect- 
ure. An  architect  trained  in  the  worst  schools,  and  utterly 
devoid  of  all  meaning  or  purpose  in  his  work,  may  yet  have 
such  a natural  gift  of  massing  and  grouping  as  wdll  render 
all  his  structures  effective  when  seen  from  a distance  : such 
a gift  is  very  general  with  the  late  Italian  builders,  so  that 
many  of  the  most  contemptible  edifices  in  the  country  have 
good  stage  effect  so  long  as  we  dro  not  approach  them.  The 
Church  of  the  Salute  is  farther  assisted  by  the  beautiful 
flight  of  steps  in  front  of  it  down  to  the  canal ; and  its 
fa9ade  is  rich  and  beautiful  of  its  kind,  and  was  chosen  by 
Turner  for  the  principal  object  in  his  well-known  view  of 
the  Grand  Canal.  The  principal  faults  of  the  building  are 
the  meagre  windows  in  the  sides  of  the  cupola,  and  the 
ridiculous  disguise  of  the  buttresses  under  the  form  of  co- 
lossal scrolls  ; the  buttresses  themselves  being  originally  a 
hypocrisy,  for  the  cupola  is  stated  by  Lazari  to  be  of  tim- 
ber, and  therefore  needs  none.  The  sacristy  contains  sev- 
eral precious  pictures  : the  three  on  its  roof  by  Titian,  much 
vaunted,  are  indeed  as  feeble  as  they  are  monstrous ; but 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


375 


the  small  Titian,  “ St.  Mark,  with  Sts.  Cosmo  and  Damian,” 
was,  when  I first  saw  it,  to  my  judgment,  by  far  the  first 
work  of  Titian’s  in  Venice.  It  has  since  been  restored  by 
the  Academy,  and  it  seemed  to  me  entirely  destroyed,  but  I 
had  not  time  to  examine  it  carefully. 

At  the  end  of  the  larger  sacristy  is  the  lunette  which  once 
decorated  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Francesco  Dandolo  (see 
III.,  page  77)  ; and,  at  the  side  of  it,  one  of  the  most 
highly  finished  Tintorets  in  Venice,  namely  : 

The  Marriage  in  Cana.  An  immense  picture,  some 
twenty-five  feet  long  by  fifteen  high,  and  said  by  Lazari  to 
be  one  of  the  few  which  Tintoret  signed  with  his  name.  I 
am  not  surprised  at  his  having  done  so  in  this  case.  Evi- 
dently the  work  has  been  a favorite  with  him,  and  he  has 
taken  as  much  pains  as  it  was  ever  necessary  for  his  colos- 
sal strength  to  take  with  anything.  The  subject  is  not  one 
which  admits  of  much  singularity  or  energy  in  composition. 
It  was  always  a favorite  one  with  Veronese,  because  it  gave 
dramatic  interest  to  figures  in  gay  costumes  and  of  cheerful 
countenances ; but  one  is  surprised  to  find  Tintoret,  whose 
tone  of  mind  was  always  grave,  and  wTho  did  not  like  to 
make  a picture  out  of  brocades  and  diadems,  throwing  his 
wdiole  strength  into  the  conception  of  a marriage  feast ; but 
so  it  is,  and  there  are  assuredly  no  female  heads  in  any  of 
his  pictures  in  Venice  elaborated  so  far  as  those  which  here 
form  the  central  light.  Neither  is  it  often  that  the  works 
of  this  mighty  master  conform  themselves  to  any  of  the 
rules  acted  upon  by  ordinary  painters  ; but  in  this  instance 
the  popular  laws  have  been  observed,  and  an  academy  stu- 
dent would  be  delighted  to  see  with  what  severity  the  prin- 
cipal light  is  arranged  in  a central  mass,  which  is  divided 
and  made  more  brilliant  by  a vigorous  piece  of  shadow 
thrust  into  the  midst  of  it,  and  which  dies  awTay  in  lesser 
fragments  and  sparkling  towards  the  extremities  of  the  pict- 
ure. This  mass  of  light  is  as  interesting  by  its  composition 
as  by  its  intensity.  The  cicerone  who  escorts  the  stranger 
round  the  sacristy  in  the  course  of  five  minutes,  and  allows 
him  some  forty  seconds  for  the  contemplation  of  a picture 


376 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


which  the  study  of  six  months  would  not  entirely  fathom, 
directs  his  attention  very  carefully  to  the  “ bell’  effetto  di 
prospettivo,”  the  whole  merit  of  the  picture  being,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  intelligent  public,  that  there  is  a long  table  in 
it,  one  end  of  which  looks  farther  off  than  the  other ; but 
there  is  more  in  the  “bell’  effetto  di  prospettivo”  than  the 
observance  of  the  common  laws  of  optics.  The  table  is  set 
in  a spacious  chamber,  of  which  the  windows  at  the  end  let 
in  the  light  from  the  horizon,  and  those  in  the  side  wall  the 
intense  blue  of  an  Eastern  sky.  The  spectator  looks  all 
along  the  table,  at  the  farther  end  of  which  are  seated 
Christ  and  the  Madonna,  the  marriage  guests  on  each  side 
of  it, — on  one  side  men,  on  the  other  women  ; the  men  are 
set  with  their  backs  to  the  light,  which  passing  over  their 
heads  and  glancing  slightly  on  the  tablecloth,  falls  in  full 
length  along  the  line  of  young  Venetian  women,  who  thus 
fill  the  whole  centre  of  the  picture  with  one  broad  sunbeam, 
made  up  of  fair  faces  and  golden  hair.  Close  to  the  spec- 
tator a woman  has  risen  in  amazement,  and  stretches  across 
the  table  to  show  the  wine  in  her  cup  to  those  opposite  ; 
her  dark  red  dress  intercepts  and  enhances  the  mass  of 
gathered  light.  It  is  rather  curious,  considering  the  sub- 
ject of  the  picture,  that  one  cannot  distinguish  either  the 
bride  or  the  bridegroom  ; but  the  fourth  figure  from  the 
Madonna  in  the  line  of  women,  who  wears  a white  head- 
dress of  lace  and  rich  chains  of  pearls  in  her  hair,  may  well 
be  accepted  for  the  former,  and  I think  that  between  her 
and  the  woman  on  the  Madonna’s  left  hand  the  unity  of  the 
line  of  women  is  intercepted  by  a male  figure ; be  this  as  it 
may,  this  fourth  female  face  is  the  most  beautiful,  as  far  as 
I recollect,  that  occurs  in  the  works  of  the  painter,  with  the 
exception  only  of  the  Madonna  in  the  “Flight  into  Egypt.” 
It  is  an  ideal  which  occurs  indeed  elsewhere  in  many  of 
his  works,  a face  at  once  dark  and  delicate,  the  Italian  cast 
of  feature  moulded  with  the  softness  and  childishness  of 
English  beauty  some  half  a century  ago  ; but  I have  never 
seen  the  ideal  so  completely  worked  out  by  the  master. 
The  face  may  best  be  described  as  one  of  the  purest  and 


VENETIAN  INDEX . 


377 


softest  of  Stothard’s  conceptions,  executed  with  all  the 
strength  of  Tintoret.  The  other  women  are  all  made  infe- 
rior to  this  one,  but  there  are  beautiful  profiles  and  bend- 
ings of  breasts  and  necks  along  the  whole  line.  The  men 
are  all  subordinate,  though  there  are  interesting  portraits 
among  them  ; perhaps  the  only  fault  of  the  picture  being 
that  the  faces  are  a little  too  conspicuous,  seen  like  balls  of 
light  among  the  crowd  of  minor  figures  which  fill  the  back- 
ground of  the  picture.  The  tone  of  the  whole  is  sober  and 
majestic  in  the  highest  degree  ; the  dresses  are  all  broad 
masses  of  color,  and  the  only  parts  of  the  picture  which  lay 
claim  to  the  expression  of  wealth  or  splendor  are  the  head- 
dresses of  the  women.  In  this  respect  the  conception  of 
the  scene  differs  widely  fro  ill  that  of  Veronese,  and  ap- 
proaches more  nearly  to  the  probable  truth.  Still  the  mar- 
riage is  not  an  unimportant  one  ; an  immense  crowd,  filling 
the  background,  forming  superbly  rich  mosaic  of  color 
against  the  distant  sky.  Taken  as  a whole,  the  picture  is 
perhaps  the  most  perfect  example  which  human  art  has 
produced  of  the  utmost  possible  force  and  sharpness  of 
shadow  united  with  richness  of  local  color.  In  all  the  other 
works  of  Tintoret,  and  much  more  of  other  colorists,  either 
the  light  and  shade  or  the  local  color  is  predominant ; in 
the  one  case  the  picture  has  a tendency  to  look  as  if  painted 
by  candle-light,  in  the  other  it  becomes  daringly  conven- 
tional, and  approaches  the  conditions  of  glass-painting. 
This  picture  unites  color  as  rich  as  Titian’s  with  light  and 
shade  as  forcible  as  Rembrandt’s,  and  far  more  decisive. 

There  are  one  or  two  other  interesting  pictures  of  the 
early  Venetian  schools  in  this  sacristy,  and  several  impor- 
tant tombs  in  the  adjoining  cloister  ; among  which  that  of 
Francesco  Dandolo,  transported  here  from  the  Church  of 
the  Frari,  deserves  especial  attention.  See  III,  p.  77. 

Salvatore,  Church  of  St.  Base  Renaissance,  occupying  the 
place  of  the  ancient  church,  under  the  porch  of  which  the 
Pope  Alexander  III.  is  said  to  have  passed  the  night.  M. 
Lazari  states  it  to  have  been  richly  decorated  with  mosaics  ; 
now  all  is  gone. 


378 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


In  the  interior  of  the  church  are  some  of  the  best  exam- 
ples of  [Renaissance  sculptural  monuments  in  Venice.  (See 
above,  Chap.  II.  § lxxx.)  It  is  said  to  possess  an  important 
pala  of  silver,  of  the  thirteenth  century,  one  of  the  objects 
in  Venice  which  I much  regret  having  forgotten  to  examine  ; 
besides  two  Titians,  a Bonifazio,  and  a John  Bellini.  The 
latter  (“  The  Supper  at  Emmaus”)  must,  I think,  have  been 
entirely  repainted  : it  is  not  only  unworthy  of  the  master, 
but  unlike  him  ; as  far,  at  least,  as  I could  see  from  below, 
for  it  is  hung  high. 

Sanudo  Palazzo.  At  the  Miracoli.  A noble  Gothic  palace  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  with  Byzantine  fragments  and  cor- 
nices built  into  its  walls,  especially  round  the  interior  court, 
in  which  the  staircase  is  very  noble.  Its  door,  opening  on 
the  quay,  is  the  only  one  in  Venice  entirely  uninjured  ; re- 
taining its  wooden  valve  richly  sculptured,  its  wicket  for 
examination  of  the  stranger  demanding  admittance,  and  its 
quaint  knocker  in  the  form  of  a fish. 

Scalzi,  Church  of  the.  It  possesses  a fine  John  Bellini,  and 
is  renowned  through  Venice  for  its  precious  marbles.  I 
omitted  to  notice  above,  in  speaking  of  the  buildings  of  the 
Grotesque  Renaissance,  that  many  of  them  are  remarkable 
for  a kind  of  dishonesty,  even  in  the  use  of  true  marbles, 
resulting  not  from  motives  of  economy,  but  from  mere  love 
of  juggling  and  falsehood  for  their  own  sake.  I hardly 
know  which  condition  of  mind  is  meanest,  that  which  has 
pride  in  plaster  made  to  look  like  marble,  or  that  which 
takes  delight  in  marble  made  to  look  like  silk.  Several  of 
the  later  churches  in  Venice,  more  especially  those  of  the 
. Jesuiti,  of  San  Clemente,  and  this  of  the  Scalzi,  rest  their 
chief  claims  to  admiration  on  their  having  curtains  and  cush- 
ions cut  out  of  rock.  The  most  ridiculous  example  is  in 
San  Clemente,  and  the  most  curious  and  costly  are  in  the 
Scalzi  ; which  latter  church  is  a perfect  type  of  the  vulgar 
abuse  of  marble  in  every  possible  way,  by  men  who  had  no 
eye  for  color,  and  no  understanding  of  any  merit  in  a work 
of  art  but  that  which  arises  from  costliness  of  material,  and 
such  powers  of  imitation  as  are  devoted  in  England  to 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


379 


the  manufacture  of  peaches  and  eggs  out  of  Derbyshire 
spar. 

Sebastian,  Church  of  St.  The  tomb,  and  of  old  the  monu- 
ment, of  Paul  Veronese.  It  is  full  of  his  noblest  pictures, 
or  of  what  once  were  such  ; but  they  seemed  to  me  for  the 
most  part  destroyed  by  repainting.  I had  not  time  to  ex- 
amine them  j ustly,  but  I would  especially  direct  the  travel- 
ler’s attention  to  the  small  Madonna  over  the  second  altar 
on  the  right  of  the  nave,  still  a perfect  and  priceless  treas- 
ure. 

Servt,  Church  of  the.  Only  two  of  its  gates  and  some  ruined 
walls  are  left,  in  one  of  the  foulest  districts  of  the  city.  It 
was  one  of  the  most  interesting  monuments  of  the  early 
fourteenth  century  Gothic  ; and  there  is  much  beauty  in  the 
fragments  yet  remaining.  How  long  they  may  stand  I know 
not,  the  whole  building  having  been  offered  me  for  sale, 
ground  and  all,  or  stone  by  stone,  as  I chose,  by  its  joresent 
proprietor,  when  I was  last  in  Venice.  More  real  good 
might  at  present  be  effected  by  any  wealthy  person  who 
would  devote  his  resources  to  the  preservation  of  such  monu- 
ments wherever  they  exist,  by  freehold  purchase  of  the  en- 
tire ruin,  and  afterwards  by  taking  proper  charge  of  it,  and 
forming  a garden  round  it,  than  by  any  other  mode  of  pro- 
tecting or  encouraging  art.  There  is  no  school,  no  lecturer, 
like  a ruin  of  the  early  ages. 

Severo,  Fondamenta  San,  palace  at,  II.  263. 

Silvestro,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance  in  itself,  but  it 
contains  two  very  interesting  pictures  : the  first,  a “ St. 
Thomas  of  Canterbury  with  the  Baptist  and  St.  Francis,” 
by  Girolamo  Santa  Croce,  a superb  example  of  the  Venetian 
religious  school ; the  second  by  Tintoret  namely  : 

The  Baptism  of  Christ.  (Over  the  first  altar  on  the  right 
of  the  nave.)  An  upright  picture,  some  ten  feet  wide  by 
fifteen  high  ; the  top  of  it  is  arched,  representing  the  Father 
supported  by  angels.  It  requires  little  knowledge  of  Tin- 
toret to  see  that  these  figures  are  not  by  his  hand.  By  re- 
turning to  the  opposite  side  of  the  nave,  the  join  in  the 
canvas  may  be  plainly  seen,  the  upper  part  of  the  picture 


380 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


having  been  entirely  added  on  : whether  it  had  this  upper 
part  before  it  was  repainted,  or  whether  originally  square, 
cannot  now  be  told,  but  I believe  it  had  an  upper  part  which 
has  been  destroyed.  I am  not  sure  if  even  the  dove  and 
the  two  angels  which  are  at  the  top  of  the  older  part  of  the 
picture  are  quite  genuine.  The  rest  of  it  is  magnificent, 
though  both  the  figures  of  the  Saviour  and  the  Baptist  show 
some  concession  on  the  part  of  the  painter  to  the  imperative 
requirement  of  his  age,  that  nothing  should  be  done  except 
in  an  attitude  ; neither  are  there  any  of  his  usual  fantastic 
imaginations.  There  is  simply  the  Christ  in  the  water  and 
the  St.  John  on  the  shore,  without  attendants,  disciples,  or  wit- 
nesses of  any  kind  ; but  the  power  of  the  light  and  shade,  and 
the  splendor  of  the  landscape,  which  on  the  whole  is  well  pre- 
served, render  it  a most  interesting  example.  The  Jordan  is 
represented  as  a mountain  brook,  receiving  a tributary  stream 
in  a cascade  from  the  rocks,  in  which  St.  John  stands  : there 
is  a rounded  stone  in  the  centre  of  the  current  ; and  the 
parting  of  the  water  at  this,  as  well  as  its  rippling  among 
the  roots  of  some  dark  trees  on  the  left,  are  among  the  most 
accurate  remembrances  of  nature  to  be  found  in  any  of  the 
■works  of  the  great  masters.  I hardly  know  whether  most 
to  wonder  at  the  power  of  the  man  who  thus  broke  through 
the  neglect  of  nature  which  was  universal  at  his  time  ; or 
at  the  evidences,  visible  throughout  the  whole  of  the  con- 
ception, that  he  was  still  content  to  paint  from  slight  mem- 
ories of  what  he  had  seen  in  hill  countries,  instead  of  fol- 
lowing out  to  its  full  depth  the  fountain  which  he  had 
opened.  There  is  not  a stream  among  the  hills  of  Priuli 
which  in  any  quarter  of  a mile  of  its  course  would  not  have 
suggested  to  him  finer  forms  of  cascade  than  those  which  he 
has  idly  painted  at  Yenice. 

Simeone,  Proeeta,  Church  of  St.  Yery  important,  though 
small,  possessing  the  precious  statue  of  St.  Simeon,  above 
noticed,  II.  307.  The  rare  early  Gothic  capitals  of  the  nave 
are  only  interesting  to  the  architect ; but  in  the  little  pas- 
sage by  the  side  of  the  church,  leading  out  of  the  Campo, 
there  is  a curious  Gothic  monument  built  into  the  wall,  very 


beautiful  in  the  placing  of  the  angels  in  the  spanu: 
rich  in  the  vine-leaf  moulding  above. 

Simeone,  Piccolo,  Church  of  St.  One  of  the  ugliest  churches 
in  Venice  or  elsewhere.  Its  black  dome,  like  an  unusual 
species  of  gasometer,  is  the  admiration  of  modern  Italian 
architects. 

Sospiri,  Ponte  de\  The  well  known  “ Bridge  of  Sighs,”  a 
work  of  no  merit,  and  of  a late  period  (see  Vol.  II.  p.  302), 
owing  the  interest  it  possesses  chiefly  to  its  pretty  name, 
and  to  the  ignorant  sentimentalism  of  Byron. 

Spirito  Santo,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Stefano,  Church  of  St.  An  interesting  building  of  central 
Gothic,  the  best  ecclesiastical  example  of  it  in  Venice.  The 
west  entrance  is  much  later  than  any  of  the  rest,  and  is  of 
the  richest  Renaissance  Gothic,  a little  anterior  to  the  Porta 
della  Carta,  and  first-rate  of  its  kind.  The  manner  of  the 
introduction  of  the  figure  of  the  angel  at  the  top  of  the  arch 
is  full  of  beauty.  Note  the  extravagant  crockets  and  cusp 
finials  as  signs  of  decline. 

Stefano,  Church  of  St.,  at  Murano,  (pugnacity  of  its  abbott), 
II.  33.  The  church  no  longer  exists. 

Strope,  Campiello  della,  house  in,  II.  265, 


T 

Tana,  windows  at  the,  II.  259. 

Tiepolo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Tolentini,  Church  of  the.  One  of  the  basest  and  coldest 
■works  of  the  late  Renaissance.  It  is  said  to  contain  t^vo 
Bonifazios. 

Toma,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Toma,  Ponte  San.  There  is  an  interesting  ancient  doorway 
opening  on  the  canal  close  to  this  bridge,  probably  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  a good  early  Gothic  door,  opening 
upon  the  bridge  itself. 

Torcello,  general  aspect  of,  II.  17  ; Santa  Fosca  at,  I.  124,  II. 
13  ; duomo,  II.  19  : mosaics  of,  II.  196  ; measures  of,  II 
376  ; date  of,  II.  378. 

Trevisan,  Palazzo,  I.  362,  III.  2130 


STONES  OF  VENICE. 


azzo.  Of  no  importance. 

vaso,  Church  of  St.  Itself  of  no  importance,  but  contain* 
ing  two  pictures  by  Tintoret,  namely  : 

1.  The  Temptation  of  St  Anthony . (Altar  piece  in  the 
chapel  on  the  left  of  the  choir.)  A small  and  very  carefully 
finished  picture,  but  marvellously  temperate  and  quiet  in 
treatment,  especially  considering  the  subject,  which  one 
would  have  imagined  likely  to  inspire  the  painter  with  one 
of  his  most  fantastic  visions.  As  if  on  purpose  to  disappoint 
us,  both  the  effect,  and  the  conception  of  the  figures,  are 
perfectly  quiet,  and  appear  the  result  much  more  of  careful 
study  than  of  vigorous  imagination.  The  effect  is  one  of 
plain  daylight  ; there  are  a few  clouds  drifting  in  the  dis- 
tance, but  with  no  wildness  in  them,  nor  is  there  any  energy 
or  heat  in  the  flames  which  mantle  about  the  waist  of  one 
of  the  figures.  But  for  the  noble  workmanship,  we  might 
almost  fancy  it  the  production  of  a modern  academy ; yet 
as  we  begin  to  read  the  picture,  the  painter’s  mind  becomes 
felt.  St.  Anthony  is  surrounded  by  four  figures,  one  of 
wiiich  onty  has  the  form  of  a demon,  and  he  is  in  the  .back- 
ground, engaged  in  no  more  terrific  act  of  violence  toward 
St.  Anthony,  than  endeavoring  to  pull  off  his  mantle  ; he 
has,  however,  a scourge  over  his  shoulder,  but  this  is  prob- 
ably intended  for  St.  Anthony’s  weapon  of  self-discipline, 
which  the  fiend,  with  a very  Protestant  turn  of  mind,  is  car- 
rying off.  A broken  staff,  with  a bell  hanging  to  it,  at  the 
saint’s  feet,  also  expresses  his  interrupted  devotion.  The 
three  other  figures  beside  him  are  bent  on  more  cunning 
mischief  : the  woman  on  the  left  is  one  of  Tintoret’s  best 
portraits  of  a young  and  bright-eyed  Venetian  beauty.  It 
is  curious  that  he  has  given  so  attractive  a countenance  to  a 
type  apparently  of  the  temptation  to  violate  the  power  of 
poverty,  for  this  woman  places  one  hand  in  a vase  full  of 
coins,  and  shakes  golden  chains  with  the  other.  On  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  saint,  another  woman,  admirably  painted, 
but  of  a far  less  attractive  countenance,  is  a type  of  the  lusts 
of  the  flesh,  yet  there  is  nothing  gross  or  immodest  in  her 
dress  or  gesture.  She  appears  to  have  been  baffled,  and  for 


VENETIAN  INDEX . 


383 


the  present  to  have  given  up  addressing  the  saint : she  lays 
one  hand  upon  her  breast,  and  might  be  taken  for  a very 
respectable  person,  but  that  there  are  flames  playing  about 
her  loins.  A recumbent  figure  on  the  ground  is  of  less  in- 
telligible character,  but  may  perhaps  be  meant  for  Indo- 
lence ; at  all  events,  he  has  torn  the  saint’s  book  to  pieces0 
I forgot  to  note,  that  under  the  figure  representing  Avarice, 
there  is  a creature  like  a pig  ; whether  actual  pig  or  not  is 
unascertainable,  for  the  church  is  dark,  the  little  light  that 
comes  on  the  picture  falls  on  it  the  wrong  way,  and  one 
third  of  the  lower  part  of  it  is  hidden  by  a white  case,  con- 
taining a modern  daub,  lately  painted  by  way  of  an  altar 
piece  ; the  meaning,  as  well  as  the  merit,  of  the  grand  old 
picture  being  now  far  beyond  the  comprehension  both  of 
priests  and  people. 

2.  The  Last  Sapper.  (On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  Chapel 
of  the  Sacrament.)  A picture  which  has  been  through  the 
hands  of  the  Academy,  and  is  therefore  now  hardly  worth 
notice.  Its  conception  seems  always  to  have  been  vulgar, 
and  far  below  Tintoret’s  usual  standard  ; there  is  singular 
baseness  in  the  circumstance,  that  one  of  the  near  Apostles, 
while  all  the  others  are,  as  usual,  intent  upon  Christ’s  words, 
“One  of  you  shall  betray  me,”  is  going  to  help  himself  to 
wine  out  of  a bottle  which  stands  behind  him.  In  so  doing 
he  stoops  towards  the  table,  the  flask  being  on  the  floor.  If 
intended  for  the  action  of  Judas  at  this  moment,  there  is 
the  painter’s  usual  originality  in  the  thought ; but  it  seems 
to  me  rather  done  to  obtain  variation  of  posture,  in  bringing 
the  red  dress  into  strong  contrast  with  the  tablecloth.  The 
color  has  once  been  fine,  and  there  are  fragments  of  good 
painting  still  left  ; but  the  light  does  not  permit  these  to  be 
seen,  and  there  is  too  much  perfect  work  o»f  the  master’s  in 
Venice,  to  permit  us  to  spend  time  on  retouched  remnants. 
The  picture  is  only  worth  mentioning,  because  it  is  igno- 
rantly and  ridiculously  referred  to  by  Kugler  as  characteristic 
of  Tintoret. 


384 


THE  STONES  OF  VENICE. 


V 

Vitali,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a picture  Vitto*: 
Carpaccio,  over  the  high  altar  : otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Volto  Santo,  Church  of  the.  An  interesting  but  desecrated 
ruin  of  the  fourteenth  century  ; fine  in  style.  Its  roof  retains 
some  fresco  coloring,  but,  as  far  as  I recollect,  of  later  date 
than  the  architecture. 


Z 

Zaccaria,  Church  of  St.  Early  Eenaissance,  and  fine  of  its 
hind  ; a Gothic  chapel  attached  to  it  is  of  great  beauty.  It 
contains  the  best  John  Bellini  in  Venice,  after  that  of  San 
G.  Grisostomo,  “ The  Virgin,  with  Four  Saints  ; ” and  is  said 
to  contain  another  John  Bellini  and  a Tintoret,  neither  of 
which  I have  seen. 

Zitelle,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Zobenigo,  Church  of  Santa  Maria,  III.  125.  It  contains  one 
valuable  Tintoret,  namely  : 

Christ  with  Sta.  Justina  and  St.  Augustin . (Over  the  third 
altar  on  the  south  side  of  the  nave.)  A picture  of  small  size, 
and  upright,  about  ten  feet  by  eight.  Christ  appears  to  be 
descending  out  of  the  clouds  between  the  two  saints,  who 
are  both  kneeling  on  the  sea  shore.  It  is  a Venetian  sea, 
breaking  on  a flat  beach,  like  the  Lido,  with  a scarlet  galley 
in  the  middle  distance,  of  which  the  chief  use  is  to  unite  the 
two  figures  by  a point  of  color.  Both  the  saints  are  respecta- 
ble Venetians  of  the  lower  class,  in  homely  dresses  and  with 
homely  faces.  The  wdiole  picture  is  quietly  painted,  and 
somewhat  slightly  ; free  from  all  extravagance,  and  display- 
ing little  power  except  in  the  general  truth  or  harmony  of 
colors  so  easily  laid  on.  It  is  better  preserved  than  usual, 
and  worth  dwelling  upon  as  an  instance  of  the  style  of  the 
master  when  at  rest 


